


Scooby Doo, Who Are You?

by Tathracyn



Series: Scooby Doo! Incorporated Mysteries [1]
Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types, Scooby Doo! Mystery Incorporated (Cartoon 2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gen, Marcie’s here now!, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, eventual relationships but not in this one, let them find the real deal, like yeah hoaxes are the whole deal but COME ON, listen the new scooby doo movies have been undoing the supernatural mysteries, rated t due to language, thirteen ghosts did it and now zombie island too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathracyn/pseuds/Tathracyn
Summary: Coolsville. A tourist trap disguised as a city, Coolsville is home to the world’s largest collection of supernatural attractions, museums, and historians. For over a century, it's been the center of paranormal information along the pacific rim, dedicated to understanding mysteries beyond the human world.Magic exists and monsters are real, but mysteries never change. And where there's mystery, there’s Mystery Incorporated.
Relationships: Daphne Blake & Velma Dinkley & Fred Jones & Norville "Shaggy" Rogers & Scooby Doo
Series: Scooby Doo! Incorporated Mysteries [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555954
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	1. A Prelude to Mystery, part 1

Coolsville.

7:43 P.M., Friday.

* * *

“Shaggy to Fred, like, can we go home now? There’s nothing down here.” Shaggy valiantly tries to keep the whimper from his voice. He doesn’t succeed. 

_“Not yet, Shaggy. We might still find it.”_ Fred’s voice is distorted in his ear, the signal dampened by the concrete sewer walls. _“This is the best chance we’ve had in weeks. Stick it out a little longer, okay?”_

Shaggy groans into his headset, earning a soft slap in the arm from Daphne. She smiles at his expression and squelches deeper down the tunnel towards Scooby, who’s standing by a side tunnel and clearly holding back a sneeze. He leans into a jog to catch up but his foot slips on an especially slimy spot and plunges into the muck along the center with a wet _splorsh_. Gross. 

“Like, this place goes on forever. Are you sure we’re still on track?” he asks, pulling his leg out of the muck and testing it. The trip could be worse - the protective suits Velma acquired are enough to keep the nastier sewer contents away - but even when it’s dry the material weighs him down too much to be comfortable. 

This is their fourth venture into the Coolsville sewers this month. So far they’ve discovered three collapsed tunnels, two crocodile nests, six different graffiti murals and a carved map of Coolsville, but not their goal. Every trip has been a nerve-wracking crawl through the labyrinthine tunnels, and by this point Shaggy would almost rather go home, grab a snack, and leave the mystery to sort itself out. 

Almost. 

_“If you’ve been following my directions, yes,”_ Velma says sharply. _“There’s a turn coming up on the left. Take it.”_

Ahead, Scooby starts and hurriedly turns to face the tunnel behind him. Daphne quickly pushes through the muck to join him as Shaggy carefully follows suit, and the three peer into the darkness. It’s as dank and gloomy as the others, but this one is filled with an echoing thumping sound that sends a chill down his spine. 

_“Follow it for seven hundred feet and you’ll arrive at a pump station. Search for a nest, then check in_.”

“Yes ma’am, Commander Dinkley ma’am!” Daphne salutes the air with a grin that’s entirely too big to be sincere and taps the headset, cutting Velma off mid-sigh. She shoots the two boys an expectant look. “You guys ready?” 

“Ruh-uh!” Scooby shakes his head emphatically and waves a paw by his nose. “It rhells! Rhets do rhis rhororow.”

Shaggy can’t really bring himself to disagree. “Like, I’m with Scoob. Can’t we do this in the morning? Or like, never?”

“Oh come on, you two,” Daphne puts her hands on her hips and glares at them. “We can’t give up now! We have a _reputation_.”

“Like, it’s not giving up.” Shaggy tries to keep his voice from shaking. Scooby, standing beside him, doesn’t even make an effort to pretend he’s not pouting at Daphne. “We’re just, like, regrouping! What if we’re not where Velma thinks we are? We’ve been walking for like, an hour!” 

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Daphne counters sternly. “And we _all_ read the map, you _know_ we’re not lost. You haven’t forgotten an exit route since we were ten!” 

“Like that’s not the point! It’s like, late and we’re really far in and it stinks!”

“Rheah! Rhinks!” Scooby chimes in, then sneezes. 

Daphne keeps staring at them, and Shaggy tries desperately to hold her gaze. He doesn’t really expect to change her mind, because he _knows_ they have to finish their investigation soon. This is by far their longest case to date. If it goes unsolved much longer their families have threatened to pull their mystery-solving privileges, which would of course be a problem for _Mystery_ Incorporated. 

But hey, sue him. Wandering around sewers at night in search of monsters isn’t his idea of fun. Or safe. 

He’s just about to swallow his fear and hope for the best when she lets out a huff and drops her arms, her expression soft. 

“Look, I’ll be here the whole time. Okay? I got you.” She punches him lightly on the shoulder and looks down at Scooby “We’ll check the pump station, then we can head home. I’ll pay for pizza.” 

Scooby gives out a happy _ruff_ and prances in a circle. Shaggy gives her a weak grin. “Like, thanks, Daph. Can we get a double?”

“Of course!” She spins on her heel, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and beckons them to follow. It’s all very elegant despite them being in a sewer. “My family would most disapproving if I neglected the interests of my closest associates.” 

“Rhisaruving!” Scooby mimics as he straightens up and haughtily marches after her, bearing an uncanny resemblance to one of the Blakes’ show horses. Or, not that uncanny, really. The horses like him. 

Their cheer invigorates his own and Shaggy smiles a little as he follows them, thinking of pizzas and definitely _not_ thinking of creepy sewers.

* * *

It would be nice if things ever worked that well. 

They’re only a few hundred feet in when Scooby’s head snaps up, his ears twitching, and oh no. Shaggy knows what that means. 

Why can’t they just go home early for once? 

“Like, do you hear something Scoob?” he asks softly, putting his hand on Scooby’s neck for a moment. He feels his fur standing up even though the gloves, which can _not_ be a good thing. 

Scooby drops down into a prowl and nudges past the two humans, his normally bright expression tense as he stares down the tunnel. 

“Rheah,” he almost growls back. “Rhots uh wind and rhater.” 

Wind and water. Well, one of those things doesn’t belong this deep in a sewer. Shaggy looks over and meets Daphne’s eyes. She nods at his expression and hands over the flashlight, pulling a long piece of wood from over her shoulder. It used to be a heavy wooden oar they found out on the beach, now cut short and bound with leather to give it a proper handle. One of Shaggy’s many craft projects, and Daphne’s sorta scary with it. 

“You think it’s the nest?” she says, voice low, carefully holding the oar out to check her swing radius. 

“Rhobabry. Rhant rhell.” 

Daphne taps the oar against Scooby’s leg and he backs up to let her lead again. “Well,” she whispers as she passes Shaggy, “you wanted to get home early.” 

“Like, _thanks_ , Daph.” Shaggy holds the flashlight down low, under her arm, and they creep forwards in a line. It’s a familiar marching order, given their years of investigation. If they walk into anything dangerous Daphne is first in line to fight it off, and if they have to run the boys are way too fast to worry about getting in her way. 

The familiarity of it settles his nerves a little. This is fine. He’s with his friends. They’ve done this before, they know what to do. Everything will be fine. 

Shaggy shakes himself and quickens to keep pace with them, and if either one notices his hesitation, they don’t comment on it. 

The tunnel’s end comes into sight; a heavy metal door over a grate in the wall, muffling, but not silencing the station’s pumps. And another sound as well. Shaggy has to strain to hear it, but there’s definitely a kind of whispering squeak echoing from the other side. 

“Like, Daph? You hear that?” 

“Sure do…” Daphne stops a few yards away and looks back to them. “Scooby, can you tell how many there are?” 

Scooby carefully sniffs the air, then shakes his head and puts a paw over his nose. “Rhunno, its rhu rhelly. Rhi rink rhere’s a lot, rhouh,” he says thickly. Shaggy quickly reaches over to help stifle his sneeze. It’s hard enough to keep their footsteps from echoing, a sneeze would be impossible.

“Okay,” Daphne tiptoes up to the door and grabs the handle, carefully adjusting her footing, “get ready.”

Scooby pads up behind her and gives a sharp salute. Shaggy points his light towards the floor, gripping it a little harder than normal. Daphne nods once, twice, and _yanks_ the door open on three. She spins with the momentum and sweeps forwards, Scooby leaping forwards at her heels, and Shaggy brings his light up to illuminate the room. 

His heart nearly stops.

Hundreds of points of light flash back from the darkness. Eyes, shining from a mass of fur covering the station floor, suddenly lock onto the trio in a wave of motion, and the rustling noise stops dead as a literal _swarm_ of rats freezes in the sudden light. They fill the whole space like a carpet. A dirty, angry, _wild_ carpet of claws and teeth and fleas and hunger and and _and_ -

 _“-ggggGGRRROW_ **_ROW ROW GRRROW!”_ **

Shaggy’s heart jumps again as Scooby lets out a growling, echoing bark and bounds into the room. The rats burst into motion. They run down tunnels and up inside the pump, squeeze through grates and cracks in the walls, and a few even run up the _actual_ walls. Scooby leaps from one group to another, snapping his jaws at their tails and tossing the few he catches into the water. Daphne follows him, dancing around the squealing rats and taking swings at the stragglers, and in a few hectic seconds the trio are alone in the much-quieter pump station. 

“Like good work buddy!” Shaggy sighs, sinking down and resting his shaking hands on his knees. Scooby pads back to him and nuzzles against his cheek, gently pushing against him in a slow rhythm. He breathes in, and out, along with the rhythm, and after several seconds his hands are steadied again. “Keep your ears up, okay?”

Scooby bobs in agreement. Off to the side Daphne’s leaning on her oar, keeping them in her sight as she taps her headset. “Commander Dinkley, ma’am. We discovered a rat horde-nest around the pump, but they scattered after scout Scooby engaged. No contact with the King yet. Securing the area now.” 

_“...Understood.”_ It’s impressive how well Shaggy can picture her expression just from her tone, and he smiles at the thought. _“Be careful.”_

“Shaggy Rogers says, like, roger.” Velma doesn’t _quite_ mute herself before he hears her chuckle. He gives Daphne a thumbs up and lets Scooby push him back to his feet. Once he’s up Scooby bounds over towards the wall and starts following the walkway around the walls, examining the grime around the smaller side tunnels with keen focus.

“Hey Shaggy. Come look at this.” 

Daphne’s already over at the pump, pointing to a dark space behind a control panel. Specifically, to an irregular dark blob poking out against the concrete and steel. He moves his light over and frowns as it illuminates a mass of twigs and leaves mashed into the gap. “Like, what’s that doing here?” 

“I think it’s hiding something.” Daphne tries to peer through the gap, but the depths are still in shadow. “C’mere, see if you can get an angle.” 

Shaggy tries to aim the flashlight better, but from this angle the light can’t reach deep enough. They awkwardly bump around for a minute before ending up with Daphne squatting down and Shaggy leaning on her with one hand, flashlight raised high in the other. With the light aimed straight down the gap, they can now see the object properly. 

It’s man-shaped, carved out of pale wood - or maybe bone, it’s hard to tell - and decorated with bundles of fur and twine, making it resemble a hairy person. Small markings are carved around the base as well, looking almost but not quite like letters. Shaggy recognizes the object from Velma’s research rants, and judging by her hiss, Daphne does too. 

It’s a ritual fetish, and based on the detail, it’s meant for some serious magic. _Definitely_ not something that belongs here. 

They exchange a long glance. “We should get it out?” She not-really-asks, and he nods and steps around to the other side to give her room. She slides her oar through the woody mass and gradually nudges the whole mass out, and Shaggy carefully grabs it out of the tangle. This close, he can identify it as a carved bone skeleton. The fur is rat fur, unsurprisingly, and it’s tied on with red-waxed twine. The lettering around the base is still unreadable - only Velma’s got any runic sets memorized - but something about it prickles at his nerves. Almost like it’s angry. 

“Can we, like, break it now? It gives me the creeps.”

Daphne shrugs. “Velma might want to look at it. I really don’t, though.” She steps back a few paces and takes up a stance. “Batter up!”

Shaggy lobs it through the air and she swings hard, catching it right on the edge of the oar. He winces as it shatters with a sharp, echoing _crack_ and a flash of sickly green light, and fragments scatter across the station floor. Exploding magical items are _so_ comforting.

Daphne kicks a few pieces through a grate and frowns. “It looks like the King really isn’t here. I guess we should report back to the van.”

Relieved, Shaggy sighs and looks around for Scooby. He hasn’t heard any sound from his best friend since they entered the room, which isn’t strange - Scooby’s easily better than any of them at hunting - but he’s a little surprised the exploding fetish didn’t bring him back. The room isn’t _that_ big, after all. 

“Hey Scoob? Like, we’re leaving.” 

There’s no response. That probably isn’t good. “Scoob?” he calls out again, moving over to the outer walkway with Daphne, who adds “Scooby, where are you? We’re done here.” 

Still no response, which cranks things up to Definitely Not Good in his opinion. He carefully creeps up to a side tunnel and pokes his head around the corner. “Like, Scooby Doo? Are you in here?” 

“R.. R.. Raggy…” Shaggy sighs in both relief and concern as his light lands on Scooby, alert and looking down the tunnel. 

“Like, what’s wrong, bud…dy...” 

The question dies as his light travels up the wall. Up to the massive, hairy black shape clinging to the ceiling, a dozen glowing red eyes twisting at the end of meter-long bodies, hanging over Scooby as he slowly backs away, trembling. The sound of the station is suddenly distant in his ears as another sound drowns it - a low, growling chatter pouring out from ragged, bloody teeth.

Six enormous rats stare down at them, fangs bared, and Shaggy’s fear bubbles back up as he remembers just _how far_ into the sewers they’ve gone. 

“like... zoinks...”

* * *

On the shore of Coolsville Bay, Fred winces as shrieks blare over the headsets. He jumps up from his seat by the Mystery Machine’s doors, grabbing a large net out of the back as he moves. “I think they’ve found it! Get in position, quick!”

“ _Thanks_ Fred” Velma takes the other side of the net with one hand, the other already holding her phone. Together they throw the net over the sewer pipe. Fred hauls himself up and starts straightening the net out as Velma stands aside and taps on her phone. He works in silence for several seconds as she waits, rapping her fingers against her thigh impatiently.

“Do you think he’s-?” She holds a hand up before he finishes. 

“Sheriff Stone,” she snaps into the speaker, “We’ve located a dangerous creature at the West Alphonse sewer entrance. Send a dispatch, quick.”

Fred can’t hear the reply, but he’s made that call enough times to guess what the Sheriff’s saying. She rolls her eyes and loudly continues “Inspector Walts is with us, he wants you present. Be here.” She hangs up and drops the phone into her bag. Fred frowns.

“Velma, you really should be nicer to the Sheriff. He’s a good man.”

“He’s a lazy idiot.” 

He sighs, knowing they don’t have time to start that argument again. 

Velma’s been against the Sheriff since they first started out. Their first real case, a string of vandalized store fronts, had _somehow_ led to them digging up centuries-old property rights disputes and worker compensation laws and a dozen other issues that even the two of them combined couldn’t make sense of. They’d taken their research to Mrs. Dinkley, who’d been able to filter out some of the irrelevant information, and then brought it to Sherif Stone to investigate. 

The Sheriff had agreeably added it to his inbox and assured them it would help the police a lot, but Velma’d wanted to work with them more. The Sheriff had said no, they wouldn’t let kids get involved in cases any further. She’d argued about it until they were physically removed from the station, but Fred eventually convinced her to leave it alone and let the police handle the rest. He’d felt pretty proud of their assistance. 

That lasted about a month. Then she’d shown up in the station with the ghost of a gold miner, a folder full of evidence and twenty pounds of mud on her clothes, and refused to leave until she’d thoroughly chastised the Sheriff down for “lackadaisical conduct” and “authoritative irresponsibility.”

Mystery Inc. and the Coolsville Police Department don’t get along very well. 

Fred is pulled out of his memories as an elbow digs into his side. Velma had climbed up beside him during his reminiscing and donned a heavy pair of long leather gloves, and is now pulling bottles out of her bag. She sets two aside and uncorks a third, then splashes its clear contents across the entrance 

“Scent masking?” He guesses, and she shrugs as she re-corks and stows the bottle. 

“Not just that. It’s new. It’s mixed with another potion that should _they’re coming!_ ” She grabs his shoulder and twists him back to face front, and he suddenly notices the echoes - he _recognizes_ the echoes coming from the tunnel. It’s clearly the scout trio approaching, fast. 

A flash of guilt spikes through the back of his mind - he _can’t_ get distracted, not with the case on the line - and he quickly looks over the net again. He can’t see any bad tangles, so he grabs hold and waits. 

He doesn’t wait long. Seconds later Scooby charges out of the tunnel in a flailing blur, nearly tripping into the bay before catching himself right at the edge and darting off to the right. Shaggy follows, half-dragging Daphne by the hand to keep pace with him.

“dropitDropIT DROP IT!” Daphne shouts over her shoulder as they stumble and dodge left towards the Mystery Machine. He barely has time to heave the bulk of the net over the pipe’s edge before a screeching mass of fur barrels into it at a dead run. The Rat King, huge and dark and furious, shrieks as its many legs are instantly tangled in fibrous rope. 

Despite the resistance it’s momentum carries it forward, and the shrieks grow even louder as it goes crashing into the bay. Fred bites out a curse. They’d really hoped it wouldn’t make it that far. “Come on!” 

He jumps down from the sewer pipe and scrambles towards the water. He vaguely hears a _clink_ behind him, then Velma’s at his side, stuffing the two bottles back into her bag and muttering curses that make his ears burn. 

The net’s in the water but the tow ropes are still dragging across the cement. Fred scrambles after them, scraping his knuckles against the ground as he hurriedly scoops them up and tosses two to Velma. 

“Pull!” he shouts, and they both tug on their ropes, carefully moving away from each other to pull the trapped creature back to shore. It fights them, thrashing against the thick fibers, but Fred hasn’t been a trapmaker this long to let a bunch of rats best him when it counts. He centers his weight low down and pulls, hand over hand, gritting his teeth as the rope digs into his palms. Velma copies his movements, and together they haul the furious Rat King up onto the shore. 

“Hold it down!” Velma shouts, quickly wrapping her ropes around one arm and using the other to dig through her bag. Fred backs away, pulling his end taut and stomping the rope down. The tension yanks the rats down as well and effectively pins them in place. 

Velma finally fishes out the correct bottle, full of sickly yellow liquid, and expertly pops the cork one-handed. “Sedating. Ready up.”

“Got it.”

She advances towards the net, carefully twisting her arm around the ropes, coiling them up to keep the net taut. Fred eyes where they dig at her gloves with concern. The leather’s tough, but she’ll probably have some bruises later anyways.

The rats screech and claw at the net, furiously reaching for her as she approaches. Fred grips the ropes tighter as she stops feet away and crouches down to face them, heedless of their grasping claws. She stares, focused and unflinching, at the frenzied creature inches from her face. 

He waits for her to use the potion, but the seconds tick past and she doesn’t move. She just keeps watching them, as if waiting for something he can’t see. 

He clears his throat quietly.

“Uh, Vel-”

A lot happens before he finishes her name. The Rat King jerks around, as if it only now remembers he exists, and its eyes flash wild as it leaps towards him _fast._ The shift in tension yanks him off balance. His foot slips off the ropes. The net rolls over from the uneven pressure. And two of the rats slip out far enough to grab at his legs. 

He hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him. It’s just for a moment, he’s had way worse in wrestling practice, but those seconds stun him just long enough for the rats to latch on and pin _him_ down. 

Flat on his back with two huge rats chomping for his face. Today’s going straight to the top of his “worst days ever” list. 

“Velma!” He gasps out as he tries to shove them away without getting bit. “Any time please!” 

Past his boots he can see the rest of the rats struggling, trying to join the two on him. He kicks at a third rat that’s a little too close for comfort, but that just makes the first two cling harder. Sharp claws stab at his legs and he spares a second to appreciate his jeans when it’s not as painful as he expected. It’s nothing on leather, but good old denim goes a long way. 

“ _Velma!_ ”

There’s a sudden tug on his pants and for a moment he’s afraid the other four have reached him, but then their weight vanishes. With his arms now unoccupied he props himself up to see Velma pulling the net and _all six rats_ backwards one-armed. With her other arm she upends the bottle and swipes it out at them. Yellow liquid splashes out over the rats, hitting three in the face with incredible accuracy, and a second swipe liberally coats the others across their bodies. 

It’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen. 

The Rat King’s screeching changes to confused chirps and it writhes around, sniffing the sedative and inadvertently rubbing it into its skin. The two rats on him let go and twist back to the main body, and he carefully pulls his legs back before backing up as fast as he thinks is safe. 

He probably could’ve gone faster, actually. The Rat King’s wild fury is already tamer, and it doesn’t seem to notice him as he scoots away. In fact, once he puts some distance between them and his vision isn’t so full of teeth, he realizes that the Rat King doesn’t seem to be paying attention to _anything_ around it. It’s nuzzling at its potion-soaked fur like a cat in catnip, its eyes half-closed and unfocused. 

It’s actually kinda cute when it’s not trying to kill him. 

“Hey Freddie? You alright?”

Oh. He’s been staring. She’s probably worried he’s concussed or something. 

“You were great!” He bounds to his feet and shoots her a reassuring grin. “I can’t believe you got them all so easily! And when you pulled them all back, that was amazing!”

It’s hard to tell with so little light but she looks a little flushed. Fred makes a mental note to double check everyone for bites or scratches, just in case. Velma once gave all of them nightmares after a weekend researching supernatural infections and diseases. They added two first aid kits to the Mystery Machine because of her. 

“Thanks, Fred.” She smiles back, then her face turns into a frown. “Did you get bit? Let me see your arms.” 

“Come on, Velma, you know I’m more careful than that.” He holds his arms out to prove it. She progresses from frowning to scowling as she examines his clothes from across the rats. Which is a little silly, really, since they can now _hear_ the Rat King snoring between them. He steps around it and closer to her. “I’m fine, don’t worry,” he adds. He recognizes what worry looks like on her. 

“They almost ate your face!” She snaps at him. “Sorry I was worried I didn’t knock them out fast enough!”

Well now he feels bad. He reaches out to take her hand but she jerks away. Which is disappointing, but he’s known her for years. Velma always gets angry when she’s worried, especially if she’s worried about someone else. Daphne says she’s like a hedgehog, all sharp points poking at solutions until one sticks, which isn’t _in_ accurate even if it’s not all she is. 

He spreads his arms again instead of responding, inviting her for a hug. 

Her face pinches up like she wants to accept, but she shakes her head and lifts her hands closer to his face. Her gloves are _very_ yellow-splattered. “We’re not done yet. Help me get it in the van.”

Of course. The case comes first. “How long will they stay asleep?” 

She makes a face. “Between two and six hours. Let’s bet on two. Come on.”

* * *

Getting the Rat King into the Mystery Machine takes them several minutes. It might be unconscious, but it’s still several hundred pounds of soaked fur and muscle. They can’t just bundle up the net and pull, either, because they need to untangle the rats while they have the space. 

It’s just the two of them since Daphne pulled the other scouts over by the Mystery Machine to clean up a little. They only just got the smell out of the Mystery Machine from their _first_ sewer trip. No one wants to risk it settling in their hair too. 

Finally they manage to free all the various limbs. The rats are well and truly out of it, they don’t make so much as a squeak. Fred ends up lifting them by the hindquarters while Velma grabs them under the forearms where the sedative has soaked in the most. Together they heave them one-by-one onto the carefully-covered van floor.

Once they’re all piled into the back, she bumps her shoulder against his arm. “Want to drive it out to the release point? I’ll wait for dispatch.” 

He doesn’t, really, since she’d be waiting in the dark, alone, once the scout trio heads out. He doesn’t say that, though. Instead he just nods. “Okay. Do you have the evidence?”

She jerks her head back towards the van. “I’ll grab it. Make sure you’re careful when you release them, the sedative might still…” She trails off, her gaze sliding up and over just past his shoulder. He turns to look as well. 

A telltale flicker of red and blue lights is visible coming from a side street a few blocks down. No siren, though, which explains why he didn’t notice it on his own. The lights turn a corner at an alarming speed and Velma whistles. 

“Nevermind, he got here fast,” she comments idly as she carefully removes her gloves. “Must’ve been a late night at the station.” 

Daphne pokes her head out from behind the Mystery Machine. Her hair is full of soap suds. “You guys can handle the debrief, can’t you?” 

Fred throws her a thumbs up and she smiles before pulling back. He watches the lights pull over near the hilltop and stop, and hears a car door open and then slam shut. There’s a flicker of white light over the edge and a figure appears holding a flashlight. It’s too dark to see properly, so he pulls his own flashlight off his belt and points it at the staircase leading down into the canal. At this distance it’s just enough to make out the broad, shadowed figure of Sheriff Bronson Stone striding towards them. 

“He seems upset,” Velma says quietly. 

“I _said_ you should’ve been nicer,” Fred shoots back. “Let me talk to him first.”

She just shrugs, which is as good a concession as he’ll get. 

By now the Sheriff’s close enough that the light’s glare doesn’t hide him, and they can clearly see a scowl under his moustache. He stomps up to Fred and pokes him in the chest. 

“Now I’ve told you troublemakers a **hundred times** , you can’t just _call me_ every time you think something’s “jinky”. I’m on overtime, I got a dozen cases to file, and I don’t need you five _dragging me out here_ for every “pollywink” and “habadabble”’ you come across.” 

“We’re sorry Sheriff!” Shaggy calls from the other side of the Mystery Machine, then immediately starts making gagging sounds. “Like, watch the soap Scoob, that went in my mouth!”

“Rhorry Raggy.”

“We’re sorry, sir. We didn’t know your caseload was that heavy.” Velma coughs something into her fist that he doesn’t catch. Sheriff Stone glanced at her, eyebrow raised, and snorts. 

“Uh-huh. See I find that _hard_ to believe since you’re **responsible** for half of it. Do y’ _know_ how much paperwork your shenanigans produce? Well I’ll tell you. _It’s a lot_.”

Apparently tired of niceties, Velma actually sticks her tongue out at that. “We’re sorry for solving mysteries that your office hasn’t, Sheriff. We can try not to do your job for you.” 

Fred sighs internally. She spins around and walks back to the van leaving the Sheriff sputtering in indignation. He moves to follow her, but stops as soon as he’s able to see into the back. Where the Rat King is. He stares at it for a moment, then looks around at their patch of shore. He quietly counts something on his fingers before turning back to Fred. 

“Y’know,” he says, and Fred tries to hold himself steady at the severity of his voice. “ _Lying_ to an officer of the law is a serious offense. Could be a lot of _trouble_. Now I don’t know what you’re up to here, but the way I see it there’s some big ol’ rats in your van and there’s _not_ a Walts around like you said, and that don’t look too good.” He folds his arms and glares at Fred. “Ya wanna fill me in?”

Fred winces slightly. It doesn’t sound great when he says it like that. “It’s not how it looks, sir. We’ve been looking into accounts of rats acting strange all over Coolsville and we found the source tonight.” 

“Well why didn’t you call the _City Health Inspector_ to deal with it?” The Sheriff asks pointedly. “ _Seems_ like something you _detectives_ should’ve done.”

Velma pushes between them to lean against Fred and slaps a manilla folder against the Sheriff’s chest. “Inspector Walts was never invited into this operation,” she says bluntly. “We suspected him of criminal misconduct related to the creature held within our vehicle and therefore have excluded him from sensitive events.” 

The Sheriff blinks, his face going blank. “Saywhatnow.”

She slaps the folder again and he takes it almost automatically. “This file contains a full account of our evidence implicating Coolsville Health Inspector Adam Walts in multiple instances of extortion, public health endangerment, and abuse of government authority, dating back a minimum of six years.” She stands back and clasps her hands behind her. “He has been using totemic rituals to control a creature known as a Rat King, long considered plaugebringers, to lure large numbers of lesser rats into Coolsville. He arranges for those rats to be drawn to businesses he’s scheduled to inspect, then offers the owners leniency in exchange for money.” 

He stares at her for several seconds before wordlessly opening the file and rifling through it. 

As he reads through the contents of the folder, Daphne comes up beside them, pulling a towel off her head. Behind her Shaggy’s drying Scooby’s haunches over by the Mystery Machine. “Hey,” she says to Fred, “we’re cleaned up so we’re heading back to my place. We’ll see you at Smoothie Shack tomorrow, ok?” 

“Sounds good,” Velma nods. “I’ll be there after the morning tours. Don’t let them clean them out.” She gestures at Shaggy and Scooby and Daphne chuckles. 

“No promises.”

Fred interrupts with a cough and glances at the Sheriff. Daphne frowns at him. He gestures again and she raises an eyebrow. “Statements,” he whispers to her and gets an eye roll in return. 

“Is it ok if Shaggy and I leave, _sir_?” She directs the question at the Sheriff, but she also gives the boys a thumbs up and they toss their towels in the van. It’s a little presumptive, Fred thinks, even if they were planning to be gone already. Walking out on a police officer isn’t going to improve relations at all. 

“Yeah yeah, sure,” the Sheriff says absently, waving her off without looking away from the folder. Fred gives her a stern look and Daphne just grins. She hugs Velma, gives Fred a quick kiss on the cheek, and salutes them both goodbye before heading back to the boys. She casually grabs Shaggy in a headlock despite the inches he has on her, and they both laugh as they walk off towards the stairs. 

Velma elbows him in the side. He looks down to see her giving him a knowing expression and he sighs. Yeah, he can’t stay annoyed with Daphne. She’s just too great. 

“So,” the Sheriff says, finally looks up from the folder. “You’re saying that Adam Walts, the guy in charge of keeping us safe from monsters, is actually putting us in danger from monsters.”

“Good deduction, Sheriff,” Velma deadpans. 

The Sheriff frowns, but doesn’t respond. He flips over a few pages and scans another entry. “Says here those rats’re all infected. You wanna tell me that’s a-okay?”

“Actually that’s not true!” Fred says eagerly. “Rat Kings are only _said_ to cause plagues. Historical records show that they appear more often during plagues, which led to them being mistaken as the causes _,_ but more recent studies suggest they only _follow_ plagues. In fact, some people think they actually eat the insects that carry them!” 

“Rat Kings are the ones in the Mystery Machine,” Velma adds with a gesture. The Sheriff looks at both of them for a long moment before tucking the folder into his shirt and turning to walk towards the van.

As he does, Fred feels Velma take his hand. She taps out a pattern, just above his watch - he notices it’s after eight when he looks down, when did that happen? - and he has to ignore the conversation to focus on it. 

_Late ... night… home… now._

He blinks. Velma doesn’t have much regard for the Sheriff or for authority, he knows that, and she also doesn’t have any conflicts about voicing her opinions out loud. She usually wouldn’t hesitate to complain aloud. 

He’s confused until he actually looks at her. Her eyes are pinched and her gaze is focused just a little past his face, and her shoulders are slumped. 

She looks _tired_ , in a way that has nothing to do with the terrible sleeping habits he tries to get her out of. Her anger from earlier is gone, burnt out and replaced by the worry she was hiding. He didn’t realize just how much his endangerment had rattled her.

He squeezes her hand in reassurance and she lets go with a quick smile. 

“Whatever the case, we need to get it out of Coolsville,” she calls out to the Sheriff. “You’ve got a copy of all our evidence, why don’t you take that back and process it and we’ll drive the rats out to the forest to release them. We can all get home quick.” 

He laughs. “Oh, no. I’m taking _you_ home-” he points at Fred “-so you can answer some questions before _I_ talk to your _dad_.” 

That’s definitely _not_ something Fred wants. “Oh come on Sheriff,” he tries. “I can get home on my own, you don’t need to _escort_ me.”

“Well with how much trouble you get into I _really_ doubt that. But I also need to brief him on this _case_ you just dropped on me, and that’s two birds I do _not need_ to leave for tomorrow. Come on, troublemaker, let’s go.” 

Fred hesitates to follow, glancing at Velma. She doesn’t look back from watching the Sheriff leave. 

“It’s fine,” she says, just a bit quiet. “I’ll take it to the dropoff instead. See you tomorrow, ok?” She holds her hand out expectantly. After several seconds of intense internal debate, Fred hands his keys over and reluctantly follows the Sheriff back to his car.

Tonight went well, but definitely not as well as he’d hoped.

* * *

Blake Mansion sits high on a hill overlooking Coolsville. Tall iron gates, lined by beautiful budding cherry trees, stretch around the sprawling estate. To the north of the house, elegant gardens weave a maze around a central fountain featuring a statue of a historic battle. The southern expanse is dotted with colorful birds, only a few of which are recognizable as peacocks. And to the west, making their way along the long road from Coolsville, a trio of figures comes upon the gates.

Daphne sighs as she leans against the gatepost and reaches for the main gate keypad. “We’ve _got_ to get our licenses soon,” she groans, typing the code in blind. “Fred and Velma are always so _busy_ with police stuff, and at the worst times!”

Scooby drops to the ground with a whiffle and pant of agreement. Shaggy crouches down and scratches his head, glancing at Daphne. “Like, are you gonna try again soon? I think Fred’s finally ok with lending you the Mystery Machine again.”

Daphne shakes her head as the gate slides open. “I can’t. They still don’t have a new instructor willing to do my test. Like it’s _my_ fault the Ghost Truck attacked during the highway part, I should’ve got my license for surviving that alone. And really, Fred should be grateful I got her back at all!” 

“Like maybe don’t tell him that before next time,” Shaggy tells her seriously as Scooby chuckles and they head up to the house. “At least you can, like, _drive_ during your test.” 

She grimaces despite his light tone. She hadn’t meant it that way, but she should’ve thought of it. Shaggy’s an excellent driver but he freezes up as soon as anyone gets in the car with him. His first test had lasted three minutes before the instructor had - politely - suggested he postpone it.

“I know. My bad,” she says abashedly. Shaggy just shrugs and grins. 

“Like, just don’t have your test right before mine and it’s cool. I need the van too.” 

_Rude_ . “Oh, you wound me, sir!” She exclaims theatrically, fake-swooning against the door and delicately lifting an arm to her forehead. “Such mockery, such insult! This attack on my character shall _not_ stand.”

Shaggy and Scooby crack up at her dramatics and she only keeps a straight face for a few seconds before she breaks into giggles too. 

“Come on, lets go complain inside,” she says and reaches out for the door. 

As she grasps it the handle twists against her palm. She quickly steps back and folds her hands in front of her, straightening out of her slouch as well. She usually has to worry about presentation from the other side of the door, but her parents are sticklers about practice. 

The door slowly opens with a chilling, creaking squeal. That has to be deliberate, given how much care goes into the mansion’s maintenance. Someone really wants to give them the heebie-jeebies. 

Not just someone, actually. There’s only a few of the mansion staff who would put in the extra effort to intimidate her, and only one who’s around this late. She grins sheepishly as the figure comes into view. “Heeeey, Domovoi…”

Domovoi Laveski, head of the Blake household staff, looms over them from the entrance. His deep-set eyes scan across a nervous Shaggy, to Scooby (whose fur is barely less scraggly than when he’d just been toweled), and come to rest on Daphne. He huffs and his stare turns from stern to disapproving. 

_He’s really unhappy_ , a part of her brain comments as she matches his stare as best she can. Even his outrageously bushy moustache fails to soften his expression, which is impressive. _Maybe we should’ve come back earlier._

 _No way_ , another part argues, _we finished the case - that’s way more important._

 _But he’s really scary when he’s mad!_ The first part responds, and that’s also true. Daphne’s pretty sure he used to be part of a mafia somewhere. She’ll never _know_ , not unless she asks, and she’s never going to do that. He’s served the Blake family longer than she’s been alive, whatever he did before then isn’t her business. 

He hasn’t let his skills rust, though, which has provided plenty of fuel for her to theorize about his life. Right after ‘mafia enforcer’ is ‘daredevil circus performer’, based on the time she caught him juggling kitchen knives while cutting onions. 

“Welcome back, young lady.” Her train of thought slams back on track as he speaks and she hastily readjusts her expression. “Am I to assume you have been galavanting through the city in search of danger, accompanied by your ruffian associates and their hound?”

She’s tired and sweaty and still smells like sewage, but Daphne has played this role in far less comfortable situations. She raises her chin and levels her haughtiest glare at the man. 

“You assume correctly. Prepare the private bathhouse at once; we shall be making use of it for much of the evening and will not tolerate interruptions.” She says in the precise, clipped tones that her parents drilled into her before she was even old enough to attend their social events. 

Domovoi gives a stiff nod and wordlessly gestures them inside. Anyone else would think him the picture of cold disapproval, but Daphne sees the corners of his mouth twitch. The exchange is an old joke between them, ever since he caught her sneaking out of the house when she was nine to visit Shaggy and Scooby. He’d given her a twenty-minute lecture on safety, responsibility, and maturity, then called the Rodgers and arranged for the boys to come over instead. Ex-mafia or no, he’s the best. 

“Like, well met my dude.” Shaggy says, holding out his fist to Domovoi as he passes. Somehow the man manages to respond in kind without compromising his stoic demeanor. Scooby follows and licks him all over the face, which he cleans with the delicate kerchief tucked into his vest. 

“If the young sir and madam would adjourn to the dressing rooms, the baths shall be ready momentarily,” he says as he smooths out his drool-covered moustache. Scooby barks happily and lopes down the appropriate hallway. 

“Rhace rhu!” he calls to Shaggy with a grin. Shaggy laughs and breaks into a jog.

“Like, no you don’t!” 

Daphne smiles as she watches them run off excitedly. The mansion’s always brighter with them around. 

Domovoi starts to follow after them and her smile slips. Traditional greeting aside, she’s not actually sure how upset he is. He’s so good at masking his thoughts… 

She awkwardly clears her throat to catch his attention. “Sorry, Dom,” she mumbles, “We dinn’t mean ta be so lae.”

He looks over at her, eyebrow raised. “Speak up, ma’am,” he says softly. “You’re a lovely young woman, you do the world a disservice by hiding yourself away.” He ruffles her hair before gently pushing her after the boys. “Now, I imagine some hot water will do you a wealth of good. Hurry along.” 

Oh jeepers, rogue affection. She feels her cheeks heating up at the warmth in his voice and quickly strides to the dressing rooms, where she won’t have to suffer anything as embarrassing as genuine heartfelt praise.

* * *

The Blake bathhouses are elegant pieces of stonework - chiseled marble inscribed with complex geometric patterns and inlaid with bits of colored glass that throw light across the waters. They’re one of the oldest sections of the estate, something of a proud centerpiece and carved from the same stone as most of the main house. Literally, in fact - Velma _still_ wants to find out how the architects obtained such a massive continuous piece of marble. 

The public bathhouse is open to the sky, heated, and large enough to entertain dozens of guests at a time - and regularly does so. The bath itself is closer to a pool; long enough to swim laps and deep enough to barely stand in, with an outcrop along two sides to serve as benches. Tall columns hold up the archways that in turn support lights, speakers and - during summers - bug nets, to provide entertainment to guests. It’s all very austentatious and somewhat greek in style. Their business guests love it.

The private bathhouse, in contrast, is an entirely subdued structure. The simple eight-walled structure is equipped with a ring of bathtubs and a coal pit in the center, with folding walls to offer privacy when desired. The rainbowed walls direct light to the ceiling instead, giving it a gentle pastel glow, and the windows are tinted amber to soften the whole visage. 

Daphne loves spending time in the baths. They’re ridiculously hedonistic in all the best ways and a perfect end to any case. 

She enters the private bathhouse to see three baths filled with bubbles, one of which is also full of dog. Scooby’s surging around making tugboat noises and the occasional steam whistle. As she walks over, Shaggy surfaces from the second bath and fountains a spout of water out. It lands squarely on the coals with a hiss and she claps. 

“Like come on Daph, the water’s great!” He calls to her before dipping back under. Scooby makes a sonar noise and she giggles. 

“Nose feeling better, Scooby?” she asks as she shifts the coal pit a little. Scooby dips his muzzle into the bubbles and grins through the resulting bubble beard. 

“Rhoads!” he says, stroking his faux-moustache contemplatively. Daphne grins again as she puts the poker back and steps into the third tub. 

She sighs as she sinks in, deep enough that the foam covers her head. The water really is great, just a few degrees short of too hot, and she immediately feels her muscles loosen up. She braces against the edge and lets her body float free, then slowly lowers herself completely under. She floats below the water for a minute, listening to the hydroacoustics and the echoes of the others splashing around, and just _drifts._ The ball of stress that’s been hanging at the back of her mind ever since they took this case bleeds out into the water, blissfully forgotten, and she curls into a ball with a smile.

More than anything else, she loves the bathhouse when she has her friends with her. When Shaggy can let go of the anxieties that haunt him, when Scooby can have fun knowing his best friend is safe. When Fred and Velma don’t have to worry about the world tearing them down, and _she_ knows all her friends are close by and safe.

She bubbles out a contented hum and stands back up. Which is a mistake, since as soon she’s carrying her own weight her legs protest ferociously. 

“Oh, _jeepers_ my calves hurt,” she says, stretching her arms above her head and twisting side-to-side, then wincing as her body pops all over. She shifts one leg up onto the edge and starts stretching that as well. 

“Like I never want to go sewer hunting again.” Shaggy groans as he dunks his hair under the water. “I wish my legs would get up and walk away.”

“Rhu rhan rake rhine with ‘em.” Scooby rolls onto his back, four paws up for emphasis. Shaggy snags his tail as he floats close and tickles his paw pads, which of course makes him flail around and splash water everywhere. 

“No deal, buddy. Two’re enough for me.” 

“You know, you didn’t have to run all the way to the dressing room,” Daphne says wryly. “How long were you waiting for the baths anyways?” 

Shaggy shrugs, or she assumes it’s a shrug from what she can see over the bubbles. “Like, at least two songs. K-Ghoul was playing the new Hex Girls album.” 

“Oh, nice! I wish I’d caught it,” she laments. “We’ve got to see them in concert some day. Velma would _lose it_.”

The conversation meanders from there, and by the time the bath water cools they’re in the middle of slamming Mr. Raffalo for his most recent homework assignment. Daphne doesn’t even realize how late it is until Scooby clambers out of the pool and shakes himself vigorously. 

“We should probably leave…” She glances at her pruned hands and winces. “Aren’t you guys hungry?”

“Like, you know it!” Shaggy nods and floats to the side to haul himself out. “I’m so hungry I could eat my raisin hands!” he says, making Daphne laugh as she follows suit.

She goes to the towel rack and starts throwing a few at him, then frowns as something occurs to her. “Hey, did you ever tell your parents you’re staying over?” she asks as she grabs some for herself. Shaggy catches two, pauses at her question, and thus fails to catch the third, which bounces off his face. 

“Like, I think so?” he says uncertainty as he unfolds one. “We told them we’re eating out, and like, that usually means we’re here or on stakeout...”

Daphne considers that for a moment, then shrugs. It’s probably fine. “I’ll go pick out a movie if you order the pizzas?” she suggests, wrapping a second towel around her. 

“Like, sure!” Shaggy nods. “Can you pick a Van Ghoul?”

“Oh, if I must,” she sighs, sounding as put-upon as possible. “I suppose I might tolerate such absurdity for the evening, should you desire.”

“Like, thanks Daph!” he says cheerfully and she punches him lightly on the shoulder. He just smiles, as innocent as can be. 

She’s exaggerating, of course. Vincent Van Ghoul makes the best campy horror movies. They’re remarkably well researched and accurate, and are often sympathetic to the monsters while still being thrilling. 

He’s also a powerful sorcerer, but they don’t talk about that. 

She makes her way to the theatre room and the VHS cabinet. Most of them are black-and-white classics her parents refuse to get rid of and the rest is a complete collection of Van Ghoul films. There’s a small overlap between the two because Van Ghoul still produces movies on tape for some reason. 

She debates between a few movies for a minute, decides against picking an outright creature feature given their earlier adventure, and eventually settles on _The Haunt of Highweather_ \- one of his best ghost films. She puts it in and pauses it, then starts arranging pillows into a proper lazy-day nest. It’s a delicate construct, refined over years of lounging around the mansion. 

She’s folding up some heavy blankets into pseudo-sleeping bags when Shaggy comes in with a bowl of Scooby Snacks. Cinnamon, based on the smell. Perfect. 

“Like, pizza’s here in twenty,” he tells her. “We got a double vegan and a mega meat manhole!” 

“Rhe got snacks rhoo,” Scooby adds, following him in. He goes to look at the TV, which is currently backtracking through the title sequence. “Rhiweather? Nice.” He watches it flicker back through the rest of the intro before tapping pause and nodding. He stopped it right at the end of the last preview. 

“Good timing Scoob,” Shaggy yawns as he throws himself onto the couch and curls up into the corner. Daphne flumps down beside him with a blanket, leaning against him with her legs hanging over the armrest. 

Scooby bounds up onto the blanket, earning an _ooof_ from Daphne, and pads in a circle on her lap before flopping down to watch the TV. Shaggy places the bowl between his shoulders and Scooby halfheartedly whuffles at them, but doesn’t do anything to move it. Daphne scratches him behind the ears as she hits play and he sighs happily. 

As the opening credits fade over to the movie itself, Daphne snuggles deeper into the blanket-nest with a contented hum. A case is freshly completed, her best friends are by her side, and the mansion is at peace. 

It’s been a good evening.

* * *

The inside of the police car is uncomfortably quiet as it trundles down the street. Fred’s finished giving a more detailed explanation of their investigation and now he’s waiting for the Sheriff to respond. The man had barely said a word during his recap, just grunting occasionally to show that he’s listening, and Fred’s run out of things he can contribute. 

The Sheriff glances at him a few times, almost like he wants to say something but keeps deciding against it. Fred tugs at his ascot nervously. The Sheriff is usually loud and authoritative, and seeing him quiet for so long is concerning. His presence is wholly different when he’s not taking command of a situation. 

Fred doesn’t know if he should break the silence or wait it out. He doesn’t have a precedent for this. 

He settles for watching the streets through the front window. The sunset’s nearly set and the storefronts are dark. Apart from the intermittent streetlights he can’t really see anything, but it’s a convenient distraction and Fred’s an experienced trapmaker. He knows to take advantage of convenient distractions. 

As they pass through Wesperton Avenue, the Sheriff finally breaks the silence. 

“I’m gonna need you to come by the station for a full statement,” he says. “This mess’ll take time to sort out. Might have to call you back in a few times.”

“Don’t worry sir, I remember protocol,” Fred assures him eagerly, relieved that the silence is done. This is hardly the first time he’s needed to give a testimony or serve as a witness. “We made sure we’re free tomorrow, I can come in before lunch!” 

The Sheriff gives him a long look that Fred can’t decipher, before his gaze is dragged back to the road by a loud honk. He jerks the wheel right with a curse and they sway back to their lane in time to avoid the oncoming traffic. 

“Are you ok Sheriff?” Fred asks in concern but the man waves him off and grabs the wheel tight. The awkward silence returns. 

After another few minutes, during which Fred starts absently fiddling with his ascot knot again, the Sheriff takes a deep sigh and glances over. 

“You know, junior Jones,” he begins, “your pa and I go way back.” 

Fred nods. “I remember, sir.” 

“Yeah we used to play college ball together,” he continues as though he hadn’t heard. “Never was first choice for any games, but he could write plays better than old Will Shakespeare himself. Took us all the way to the semifinals as _freshmen_.”

Fred nods absently. He’s heard about their college days from both many times. The general theme is that they were the golden boys of athletics and academics, top of their fields and on the fast track to glory. Obviously exaggerated, but he asked Velma to look up their college years once and they _did_ make a solid number of headlines in the local papers. 

He doesn’t know what happened between college and their current careers. Whenever he asks, they quickly change the subject. 

“Yeah, old Jones’s got a good head on his shoulders, dependable _and_ sensible,” Sheriff Stone continues. “Which is why I expect **you** to have good sense too and not _run off chasing monsters every night.”_ He brakes for a red light and turns to look at Fred. “After your pa called me up and told me he’d got a kid I expected him to be raising a lawyer or an officer, not a damn _detective-wannabe_ who gives me a headache every week! I swear, you kids give me more gray hairs than a shootout in a **fireworks factory**.”

The shift from reminiscing to frustration is jarring. He’s not shouting, but his volume _is_ creeping up. Fred sinks a little into his seat. “We’re just trying to help, sir,” he tries. He _likes_ the Sheriff. He’s a family friend and a good man. The gang doesn’t mean to make things hard for him, and Fred himself deeply respects the man’s devotion to Coolsville’s security. 

They can’t just _stop_ , though. Not when they’ve helped so many people already, and have the chance to help a lot more. 

The Sheriff scoffs. “Oh you’re _tryin’ me_ , that’s for damn sure,” he says irritably. “You kids get into trouble _all the time_ . You call me up and say ‘hey Sheriff we found a buncha sewer rats and the health inspector’s a fraud’ and think everything’s all wrapped up nice and tidy-like. But that’s not how it works, junior. You **just** make a **mess** and _I’m the guy_ who’s gotta clean it up.” 

He jerks the wheel and Fred sways in his seat as they turn, sharp. He notices that they’ve reached his street, which probably means the conversation is probably going to end now. The Sheriff closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, then nods to himself and sits a little straighter. 

“Now,” he says, and he’s back to his normal tones. “You’re gonna go inside and tell your dad where you were and what you were doing. Then you’re gonna help explain why I found his son down by the sewers, catchin’ sick rats **and** playin’ with homemade potions.”

Oops. Fred didn’t realize he’d seen what Velma was carrying. Not that they were hiding anything illegal, but not bringing attention to it is generally easier. 

Technically, there aren’t any laws preventing home brewing. Regulations on ingredients, sure, and a long list of banned recipes, but permits are only necessary for people to sell them. The biggest deterrent, other than the risk of bodily harm, is the hefty fines for any accidents that might happen. As long as she’s careful, Velma’s perfectly within her rights to brew for herself. 

On the other hand she’s in high school and working out of her back yard, and many people aren’t comfortable with that. 

“Yes, sir,” Fred says at last as they pull into his driveway. The house is as dark as the streets, save for a single light on in the office - his dad must still be working. _At least we aren’t interrupting dinner,_ he thinks. That would just be _rude._

“Alright, junior, let’s go.” The Sheriff climbs out his side and leans against the door. “I was s’posed to be home hours ago, let’s get this done ASAP.”

Fred gets out as well and faces the house. He hesitates between walking to the door alone and looking to follow the Sheriff’s lead, which means the Sheriff _actually_ takes the lead and heads up the driveway without him. 

_Pull yourself together,_ he tells himself sternly _, you’re representing Mystery Incorporated to the Mayor right now._

He stands straighter, letting the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. As the leader, it’s his duty to defend the gang when their actions come under question. Head held high, he follows the Sheriff home.

* * *

The Mystery Machine rolls to a stop outside an old convenience store neighboring the edge of the woods, far enough from the city that the sounds of nightlife fade to a quiet rumble. The neon sign hanging from the roof flickers slightly in the late night breeze, the electric hum mixing with the city ambiance and the rustling forest to produce a soothing melody. 

_Last Stop Surplus_ proclaims itself the premier first-rate shop for hunters, survivalists and gathering enthusiasts. It stocks everything from road flares to ghillie suits to honey traps, all at affordable(ish) prices, and the owner keeps meticulous sale records but doesn't ask many questions. 

The owner also happens to be an old veteran with a fascination for the paranormal, and those facts are why Velma’s currently making her way up to the door with her arms full of plastic-wrapped clothing. 

“Roland! I brought the loaners back!” she shouts as she hooks the door handle with a foot and kicks it open. 

Behind the counter, Roland Kane gives her a glance over the top of his magazine. “An’ a good eve’nin ta ya as well,” he rumbles, deep and gravelly. “Ain’t ya supposed ta be home by now?”

She dumps the clothes on the floor and hoists herself up to sit on a display case. “I don’t think mom would _let_ me come home with a bunch of sewer rats in the back,” she says as she reaches over to browse the wall of snacks behind the counter. 

Roland looks interested at that. “Oh aye, ya done rompin’ through shite fer yer beast?” he asks, folding his issue of _Trappers’ Digest_ and setting it aside. 

She picks out a bag of extra-spicy chips and rips it open with her teeth. “Of course not. Now we’ve got to work with _the police._ ” She shudders at the thought and Roland barks out a laugh. “Hazmat suits don’t keep that away, though.” 

“Don’t ah know it,” he grins at her. “Best ta learn that young, it is. Easier ta get away wit trouble at yer age, wit all dat ‘youthful innocence.’”

She crunches a handful of chips to hide her snort and looks around. The store is empty except for one kid she vaguely recognizes from school. Ellis? Eric? Something like that. She scowls when she catches them side-eyeing her and they fumbles a box of BBs back onto the shelf before quickly turning away. Curious.

She slaps down a few dollars. “I’m going to pull around back before I wake it up, ok?” 

Roland huffs. “Iff’n ya must. Ah still ya aughta put it down ‘fore it gets loose in some otha city.”

Velma rolls her eyes. “Coolsville’s a haven, we can’t go for the lethal option first,” she says as she pockets her chips and slides off the counter. “Not every problem can be solved with guns.” 

“Jus sayin, it’d be a helluva lot safer for us,” he calls out as she heads back out the door, pausing just long enough to throw him a lazy salute. 

She heads back to the Mystery Machine, sparing a moment to double check her passenger as she starts the engine. It’s still fast asleep, thankfully. She carefully backs up to the edge of the parking spaces, facing the forest, and pops the back doors. 

“Last stop, Coolsville Outskirts. All passengers, please disembark the vehicle,” she drones in a respectable bus driver impression. She glances into the back as she kicks her door open. The rats look like they’ve barely budged the whole trip, which is impressive. The sedative must’ve put them deeper under than she predicted. 

Once she gets around back, Velma pulls the last bottle from her bag - a shimmering purple liquid. She takes a deep breath and holds it before she pulls the cork and leans down. She carefully pours a little onto each of the heads, one at a time, making sure at least a little gets in their mouths. 

Making a contact-based restorative is a lot tougher than a sedative of such, and she wants to make sure it wakes up. She pockets the bottle again and waits. 

It takes a minute for anything to happen. A twitch of a leg tells her which body is waking up first. Quietly, she steps out of its direct line of sight to avoid startling it and pulls a notebook from her bag. 

It’s fascinating to observe the creature awaken. She knew what Rat Kings generally look like from her research - large, sickly beasts, bound together by knotted tails. She knew a little about their behavior: how their components work together to hunt; how they move in sync; what influence they have on other, mundane rats. 

But this, actually observing one in person, is worth more than all the books she combed through. She can almost _see_ the intelligence growing as more bodies return to consciousness. The first body wakes in a daze, slow and clumsy as it fights off her sedative, but as soon as the second opens its eyes _both_ rats start moving with more clarity. It’s incredible, and she writes her observations as fast as she can. 

The third body must be the one that notices her, since when its eyes open all three rats flinch and jerk back, tense. They bare their long teeth and chitter aggressively at her. 

She crouches slowly, arms to the side and hands away, and steps back a pace. “It’s ok,” she murmurs, low, keeping her voice steady. “I’m just here to get you to safety.” 

They _probably_ aren’t intelligent enough to understand her. That’s fine. Tone matters more anyways. The fourth body starts to stir and the first shifts protectively on top of it, still watching her. Their chittering seems less aggressive, which she takes as a positive sign. 

She can see their eyes are still red, but lack the glow they’d had at the sewers. That’s also a good thing - the spell’s probably fading already.

By the time the sixth starts twitching the other bodies are working as a full gestalt. Two sets of eyes stay on her the whole time, switching between heads when needed as the others search for injuries and threats. She stays crouched as they examine themselves 

Wait, no, not themselves. Itself. It’s awake, which means it’s functioning as a singular again. Gestalt entities are grammatical nightmares. 

Also it’s awake and in the back of the Mystery Machine, which isn’t where it should stay. 

“Go,” she tells it at her normal volume. “Leave. Find a nice swamp to live in or something.” She gives the universal gesture for shooing away. “Get.” 

After a few moments of continuous shooing, the Rat King seems to get the hint. It darts out the doors and flows down to the cement with surprising grace, heading for the woods. At the edge of the lot it pauses to look back, just briefly, then darts off into the grass. She watches its wake until it reaches the treeline, where she finally loses track of it. 

Velma sighs and stands straight, stretching her back and arms. She tosses her gear into the back and shuts the doors, then pulls herself up on top of the Mystery Machine with a grunt. 

The cool metal is soothing against her back and neck as she lays back, hanging her head upside down and staring at the city. The last of dusk’s blue glow is fading from the sky. Neon signs illuminate the distant building walls, panels of color giving depth to the black cityscape. Down by the piers she can see the vibrant lights of the Sea of Mystery park reflected off the wave crests. The city is glittering, a thousand points of light flickering on to mirror the stars as they arrive, lines of headlights surging like blood through metropolitan veins. 

Coolsville’s beautiful when it’s not overrun by crowds of tourists screeching at every street corner. 

A yawn creeps up on her, unbidden, and she furiously blinks away the sudden prickling around the edges of her eyes. Sleep can wait. She still has to finalize and file her notes on the case - once she drives home, of course - and now she has a page of hurried observations to clean up as well. She wants to wrap everything up while her memories are fresh. 

“Another day, another mystery,” she whispers to herself, because really, that sums up the last few years. It feels like every week some new monster’s running amok, or someone gets scared by a stray ghost, or a spell goes mysteriously wrong, and the Coolsville Police is helpless to handle any of it. If Mystery Inc. wasn’t around to help, who knows what Coolsville would be like?

A clock chimes in the distance, deep bells tolling out the hour. Velma rolls over to her stomach and sighs. 

Tomorrow they’ll all deal with their families, and the police. People will judge, rumors will spread, and the gang will be the talk of the town like they always are. At least, until some new mystery distracts everyone. And over and over, just like the last dozen times. 

But they did good tonight. They do good every time, every mystery they solve. And that’s all that matters in the end. 


	2. A Prelude to Mystery, part 2

Museum of Supernatural History

12:13 P.M., Saturday

* * *

“...and finally we have the ghost of Captain Cutler, a pirate captain who made port in what became Coolsville Bay.” Velma gestures to the old diving suit behind her. It glows faintly green even under the display lights. “He evaded imperial ships for decades, primarily raiding merchants and royal messengers, before his eventual capture and execution in 1735.”

It’s a busy day at the Coolsville museum. Half a dozen families have come through already, something unidentifiable broke a window in the basement, and her dad’s getting over the flu so everyone’s covering extra. She’s done this tour, _Coolsville: A History_ , three times since she woke up and is basically running on autopilot. 

“With his dying breath, he swore to return for his treasure and bring ruin on all who sail these shores. Witnesses claim his decapitated head was still laughing as it fell lifeless to the ground,” she continues dully. 

The tourists gasp in awe anyways, all gaping mouths and fisheyes. Velma holds back a scowl with practiced ease. Saturdays are the worst. She doesn’t understand why any parent would spend their day off stuck in a museum with kids they don’t want to be around, but apparently it makes sense to everyone else. _She_ wouldn’t be here if her parents weren’t paying her. It’s ‘good practice’, they say. They don’t say what the practice is _for_ , but she assumes it’s a lesson in patience. Or maybe political speeches, those are boring enough. 

Her sister helps with tours too, but Velma’s alone for the busiest time of the day and Madelyn only has to deal with the evening stragglers. It’s practice, not torture. Her sister’s too young to deal with the worst of it. 

“But I thought-” one of the kids speaks up nervously. Velma notices a woman - who looks a lot like the kid - look down with a huff, and frowns. She’s been eyeing the adults the whole tour, and this woman could fill a balloon with how much she’s sighing. 

She motions for the kid to continue. They stumble on their question, but press forward when she gives them an encouraging smile. “I-isn’t that suit really new? I mean it - it doesn’t look three hundred.”

Well now. The kid’s clever. People don’t usually catch that so quickly. 

“Excellent observation.” She makes sure her voice is a little more animated as she addresses the kid directly. “You see, the Captain made good on his vow. His spirit evaded capture just as his body did in life, and made its way back to the living world. His ghost has surfaced at many points over the centuries, hunting sailors to their doom. This particular suit was from his appearance in 1937 when he attacked a crew of treasure hunters diving outside the bay.” 

She leans down to the wide-eyed child. “Coast Guard responders found one of the divers’ bodies shoved into the suit, as if he died and then dressed himself. They didn’t find any of the others.” 

“Coool,” the kid breathes, staring at the suit. Velma smiles at their awestruck expression.

“ _Excuse_ me.” 

The sharp voice draws her attention back to the frowning woman, who’s giving her a nasty look. 

“Is this really an appropriate subject for children?” she asks acidly, with enough venom to scare someone who _doesn’t_ work with monsters for a career. 

“It’s only important if you care about not getting killed by tormented spirits,” Velma replies flatly. She hears a giggle behind her, and the woman’s face suggests she did too. That kid’s all right. 

“Oh my goodness! Are we in danger?” one of the other adults exclaims, as if she thought the diving suit was going to get up and attack. Velma bites back a few possible responses before speaking. 

“Not a chance,” she decides on, still looking at the rude lady. “Captain Cutler’s ghost has been laid to rest. He won’t come back.” 

The lady actually sneers at her. “And how does a kid like _you_ know that?”

Gods, give her patience. “ _Actually_ , I was on the team that helped during his last appearance.” She hears the bite in her own voice and almost doesn’t care. “We were able to settle his anger, and he moved on in peace.” 

“You _helped it_? A greedy, murderous _ghost_?” The woman’s disgust is practically visible on her breath. Velma’s nails dig into her palm as she forces her expression to stay blank. Why do these people even _come_ here?

She breathes deeply, trying to squash her anger. As much as she wants to tear into the woman, she’s supposed to be giving a tour. She runs through her mental script for a good point to pick up at. 

“Ghosts who are born from anger and vengeance usually lose stability, in their mind and form. They become erratic, and sometimes dangerous,” she says, and it’s a challenge to ignore how the lady smirks at that. ‘Good practice’, her ass. This is totally torture. “It’s widely agreed amongst paranormal scholars that settling these ghosts is both a kindness and a judgement. Regardless of the life they lived, the dead deserve their rest. Not the abuses of the living.” 

Velma realizes too late that the last part might set the lady off, and the sudden flush in her face proves her right. Damn it, she _really_ doesn’t need this today. 

Fortunately someone else on staff must have noticed the tension, because right as the lady is opening her mouth to respond, Velma’s mom comes bustling around the corner. 

“Oh dearie me, we thought we’d lost you! You’re behind schedule, come along now. Why don’t you head over to the Local Legends wing for the next part of the tour?” She hurries the group away despite sputtered protests and Velma shudders in relief. It’s been weeks since she had someone that nasty in her tour group, and after last night she really doesn’t want to deal with it. 

The Captain’s the last exhibit in this wing, so she’s a little surprised when her mom returns sans tourists. Wasn’t she taking the next part of the tour?

“I handed them off to Darren,” she says in answer to Velma’s expression. “James said you got a bad one.” She nods to another room, where said man shoots them a thumbs up. Velma waves back. “I’m sorry we didn’t catch her sooner, sweetie. Why don’t you come take a break?”

She leads her out of the wing and they head deeper into the museum. Velma tries to calm herself as they walk, focusing on her breathing and holding it steady. She uses a similar trick when brewing to avoid fumes and keep her stirring consistent. It’s effective, and by the time they arrive at the break room she’s mostly emptied out her anger. Now she’s just left with old frustrations, which she thinks is totally reasonable. 

As soon as they’re inside her mom grabs her in a warm, motherly hug and squeezes. “I want you to know I’m proud of you!” she exclaims happily. “You did so well handling her, you’re growing up so much, I can’t believe you used to try to bite people when-”

“ _Mooooom_ ,” Velma groans, embarrassed. “It’s really not a big deal. I can handle tourists.” 

Her mom tuts and Velma feels her shaking her head. “Oh I know dear, but can’t I still mother you a little? You don’t always have to be the hard-boiled detective.”

She finally lets go, ruffling her hair. Velma shoves her lightly and turns towards the fridge to hide her smile. She grabs her lunch from inside because screw it, she’s taking her break now. 

“You know, if you ask, Carudel might offer you a summer guide job,” her mom says thoughtfully, as if it’s just occurring to her. “He’s been very impressed with your style.”

Yeah, right. Velma snorts. The museum director’s been dropping hints to her for months and she’s done her best to shoot him down politely. Looks like he finally brought it up with her parents though, so. That’s it for polite. “You mean he wants me to tell horror stories for cheap drama. No way.” 

Her mom frowns as she thumps down at the break table and opens her lunch bag. “Dear, can you wait until we’re done talking?“

Velma sighs and reluctantly closes the bag. Her mom sits down across from her, looking concerned. She taps on the table for a minute, chewing her lip. Velma patiently waits for her to speak. She has to get back to the tour so they can’t chat for long, no need to rush her even more. 

Finally her mom leans forwards. “Velma, dear, I know you don’t like people, but you’re such a good storyteller! I’m sure you would be wonderful at it. You know how proud we are of you and your friends, but wouldn’t you like to share your discoveries with an audience?”

That’s certainly a lot more tempting than how Carudel put it, but still… 

Someone left a pile of museum pamphlets on the table. Velma flips through one absently, considering how best to explain. If she was talking to anyone else she probably wouldn’t bother, but she at least wants her mom to understand her reasons. 

“We _talked_ to Captain Cutler, mom,” she says eventually. “He was stuck fighting an enemy that didn't exist, in a world that was torturing him and didn’t care. If we hadn’t helped, every human part of him would’ve been devoured by his hatred. He’d have been worse than dead.”

She hears her mom gasp softly, but doesn’t look up as she continues. “Carudel doesn’t want to hear about that. He wants _sensationalized_ history, stuff that excites people and lures them back with self-gratifying lies. He doesn't want me to teach, he just wants me to entertain.”

She flips another page and stares at it for a moment. It shows a painting of Coolsville’s founders battling against monstrous, disfigured beasts, with shadowed figures looming behind them. The animals are painted in harsh blacks and putrid greens, jagged figures against a fetid landscape. The founders, however, are painted with fine lines and soft, bright colors. 

“No one comes here to learn how to respect the things they don’t understand.”

She winces as soon as she realizes that was out loud. She glances at her mom, hoping she didn’t hear it, but oh jinkies she totally did. Her mom’s giving her a _look_ , a thread of something undefinable running behind her eyes. 

Velma doesn’t tell her parents a lot about their cases. Sure, her write-ups go into some of the museum’s displays, but she only shares the important parts. Some of their more _intrepid_ investigations toe the line of the law a bit, and while she might not care about that, Fred does. She’ll skim some details for his sake any day. 

She also doesn’t want her parents to worry enough to make her _stop_ taking cases, and Captain Cutler would’ve come close. It’s not something she wants to share details about, ever. 

Her mom looks like she’s about to ask for more, but she doesn’t, and Velma’s thankful for that. 

“Well,” she says, almost cautiously, “it’s your decision. Just keep it in mind, okay? If you change your mind over the summer, you can always let me know...” 

Velma has zero intention of doing that. “Okay, mom. I will,” she says instead, and only feels slightly guilty at the smile it brings. 

“Thanks sweetie,” her mom says. She glances at the door, then leans forward.

“It’s nice to sit down and have these talks with _one_ of our daughters,” she whispers conspiratorially, and Velma chuckles. She hasn’t seen Madelyn sit still for _anything_ , and talking about job possibilities would probably send her running. 

Her mom sighs and stands up. “I oughta get back to it. You’re alright, aren’t you, dear?” she asks as she reaches for the doorknob.

Velma considers that. She got a handle on her anger already, and talking with her mom helped too. She’s still bitter about it, but is one woman’s ignorance enough to keep her from doing her job? 

The obvious answer is no. “Yeah,” she says honestly, “I’m alright. Thanks, mom.” 

She’s definitely going to tell the gang about it, though.

* * *

The whirring of a grinder and the smell of cut metal fills the Jones’s garage. Showers of sparks reflect off the many tools hanging from racks and throw ephemeral shadows across the walls, offset only by the solitary glow of a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. 

Fred’s crouched over a grinding wheel, watching the metal in his hands vanish into embers. The gentle lights dance across his vision, flickering around the edges as they wink in and out of existence. It’s entrancing, hypnotizing, and he’s barely aware of how long he’s been at it. Half an hour, an hour, maybe? He doesn’t know. 

As the grinder wears down to the lines he’s marked, Fred shuts it down and lifts his mask to inspect the piece. He turns the metal over in his hands, carefully testing the edges for rough spots. It feels good, ground smooth in a gentle arc, so he moves over to his workbench for the next step. 

His latest trapping tool sits on top of a stack of designs. Months of his dad’s old newspapers have been sacrificed to the project, covered with ink sketches and crossed-out calculations he worked out over dozens of breakfasts. Also some coffee stains. 

Right now it looks a little like a t-shirt cannon mounted on a crossbow. It’s not pretty, being covered with scratches and welding burns. He hopes Shaggy can style it once he’s done, maybe add Mystery Machine flowers, but first he has to put all the parts together. This new piece is the last one before he can start testing it - a new cocking lever, remade to fit the barrel’s current size. He’s resized it twice already and he really hopes the proportions are right this time. 

Fred gently slips it into place with a satisfying _click._ He screws it down - by hand, because he doesn’t totally trust power tools - and gives it a yank to check that it's secure. It holds tight, which is a good sign. 

He reaches up to turn on a camera mounted on the wall. 

“This is test number six, of the Capture Launcher prototype,” he says into the lens. “Commencing test fire.” 

Carefully, keeping his hands far from the trigger _thank you very much Boy Scouts_ , he stands and aims it towards the other side of the garage. There’s an old mannequin by the door that they dug out of the dump for target practice. It’s missing an arm and the legs are torn up from traps, but it’s still standing.

Fred holds the launcher steady, eyeing the distance as best he can. He has no idea what the drop or the recoil will be, so he pulls his mask back down just in case. 

_Breathe out, breathe in,_ he thinks, finger tensing on the trigger. _Aim... and..._ **_fire_ ** _._

Nothing happens. 

“Awww,” he mumbles to himself. “I was sure about this one.” 

He pulls the trigger a few more times to make sure it’s not just sticking. The launcher stubbornly continues to do nothing, to his disappointment. Maybe something in the casing’s jamming it?

He moves to put it back down so he can shut off the camera but a knock on the door interrupts him. 

“Hey, junior. Have you got a moment?” his dad calls from the other side. 

“Yeah dad, come in!” 

His dad pushes the door open with one hand, the other holding a folder to his chest that Fred recognizes from last night. He looks around the garage with an expression Fred thinks might be concern, which is odd. He hasn’t done anything concerning today. 

“You’ve been in here all day, son,” his dad frowns. “Are you still working on that bow of yours?”

“It’s not just a bow, dad!” Fred lifts the launcher to emphasize. “It’s a modified bolas slinger. My traps usually work great, but I want a backup in case something goes wrong.”

“That’s commendable foresight, junior, but that’s not my point.” His dad waves his free hand around absently. “Don’t you think it’s a little unhealthy to be crouched over a grindstone for so long? You should get out and walk around, see the sun. Something active!” 

“But I’ve almost got it, look!” Fred holds the launcher out to show him. “I just have to check the mechanism again and maybe loosen the barrel a little here, and it’ll be-“

Some power of contrivance must be listening in, because right then the launcher kicks in his hands with a **clunk** and fires. A shot whizzes out, a spinning blur of ropes and balls that makes up at least a fourth of the thing’s total weight, and only instincts honed from years of dodging misfired traps let him track its path across the room. 

Huh. It’s spinning in the right rotation, at least. That’s good. 

The bolas ricochets off the floor directly into his dad’s legs mid-step, binding them together immediately and sending him crashing to the ground with a yell. Papers fly all over the floor and vanish under the cabinets. That’s less good. 

“Jumping jackalopes, Fred!” he wheezes, “Don’t you remember trigger discipline?” 

“Sorry dad!” Fred quickly sets the launcher down and hurries over to help. “It jammed and I couldn’t get it free and I didn’t get to unload it yet and-”

“Just help me up, son,” his dad says impatiently. Fred grimaces and kneels down to untie him. 

He has to wrestle with the cords for a minute, they wrapped really tight, but eventually he manages to get them loose. His dad stands up gingerly, wincing as he tests his legs. Fred grabs his glasses from where they landed under a table and holds them out, realizes they’re covered in spiderwebs, and quickly pulls back to wipe them on his shirt before offering them again. 

His dad coughs and straightens his tie before taking the glasses. “I’m heading to the station,” he says, as if he wasn’t just trussed up like a turkey. “Bronson has to track down Walts and he wants me to walk the boys through the evidence _you_ kids dumped on them.”

He gives Fred a sharp look as he kneels down to gather up the files. “You’re not going to cause any more trouble while I’m gone, are you?” 

Fred rubs his neck sheepishly. “No, sir. We’re going to hang out at the Smoothie Shack as soon as Velma’s shift ends. I was just working until she gets here.”

His dad hums and frowns down at the papers in his hand. “Good. Try to stay out of the headlines until, oh, maybe summer. You kids have made waves before, but this will take a lot to fix.” 

Fred blinks, taken aback. His dad’s been upset about him leading Mystery Inc before, but usually in the context of college and career opportunities. This sounds like something else. 

“Is this what you and Sheriff Stone talked about last night?” He can’t ask about specifics because he doesn’t _have_ any. After he told his dad about their investigation, he’d been asked to go up to his room and not listen in. He didn’t question it at the time: his dad’s also one of Coolsville’s high-profile lawyers and his office isn’t soundproofed. Fred’s overheard a lot of confidential case details that he wasn’t supposed to. 

But none of those details have ever involved him before. Maybe that’s why it feels different?

His dad sighs and looks up as he puts papers back in the folder. “Grab the ones under there for me, would you?” 

“Sure.” Fred kneels down and starts feeling around under the cabinets. His dad doesn’t say anything for a moment, even as Fred hands him papers. He waits. 

“I won’t be very involved in the trial,” his dad says at last. “Can’t be. Even if I _weren’t_ the Mayor, my own son being a key witness compromises me.”

The subject shift is unexpected, but Fred nods along to show he’s listening anyways. Oh, there’s one of the photo packets, good. 

“I’ll be available as a consultant because of my experience with the ‘other side’, as it were,” his dad continues. “They might not need me, since it’ll just be us humans on the stand, but I’ll still be on call. Is this everything?” 

He stands up, gesturing around with the folder. Fred presses his face flat against the floor to scan for anything he missed. “Looks like it,” he says. 

“Good.”

His dad sighs again and shuffles the papers level, not looking at Fred. “Fixing this will be complicated, and it’ll take months. I don’t need anyone making it worse by saying I’m interfering.”

“Why would anyone say that because of _us_?” Fred wonders aloud. Mystery Inc.’s work isn’t inconspicuous. They tried that for a while, but it ended with a hodag stampede and a bike chase down main street, so that isn’t an option anymore even if they wanted. 

His dad holds the folder under one arm and frowns, straightening his glasses with his free hand and staring just to the side of Fred’s head. He thinks his eyes are focused past the wall itself, too. 

“You five conducted a civilian criminal investigation that might put the city’s top supernatural safety inspector in prison, I've work closely with high-profile supernatural rights activists, and you're my _son,_ ” he says, and Fred focuses on how his tone is shifting, “The rest of the council will be suspicious, thinking I put you up to it for my own career, and some people would _jump_ at a chance to discredit me!”

He looks away sharply, rubbing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Fred watches him, wondering. He hasn’t seen him this stressed since his first-ever campaign, back when Fred was in 4th grade. But that had been months of late nights and long days, mixed with the pressure of upholding his public image. 

He only saw the evidence folder _last night,_ it really _must_ be a big deal. 

“Okay dad.” he says seriously. “I’ll let the gang know. We’ll stay out of the way while this is going on, promise.” 

He’s not totally sure why it’s so important to him, but his dad knows a lot more about politics than Fred ever could. If he says to be careful, Fred will.

* * *

Across the city, some time later, two teens and a dog are visible in the window of Coolsville’s fifth-most popular food place. 

The Smoothie Shack is a brightly-colored diner artistically constructed to resemble a giant-sized hut. Its walls are formed from feet-wide planks of synthetic wood and it’s doors sit within fake mouseholes on the sides. Cute stump-chairs and toadstool tables litter the lawn as outside seating, giving it an idyllic charm. 

It’s only fifth because it’s out of the way of the major tourist districts, which in Scooby Doo’s opinion is a plus. 

“Like hey Scoob, can you find a good one for the crab?” 

Scooby lifts his muzzle out of his glass and looks over at his friend. Shaggy’s face is half-hidden behind a stack of empty smoothie glasses as he leans over a scrapbook, carefully sliding the corners of a photo into a paper frame. 

“Ri runno, one rec.” Scooby rummages through a shoebox of photos sitting between them. He finds the packet of photos he wants and shuffles them, comparing shots for a moment before eventually picking one out and handing it over.

It shows a sand-coated Scooby laying on top of a gigantic crab in front of a bonfire, with the rest of the gang sitting on logs and roasting marshmallows happily. The crab is also roasting marshmallows, by pinching them in its claws and holding them in the flames. It’d been surprisingly friendly once everything was resolved. 

“Like, thanks man,” Shaggy says absently, fumbling for it with one hand while leafing through the book with another. Scooby tries for several seconds to match his fumbling, eventually just grabbing his hand and placing the photo in his grasp. 

Shaggy stops searching at a page marked _The Heat Crab of Coolsville Bay_ and lines the new photo up, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he positions it around the other contents.

“How many of those does he think are _bad_ ones?” Daphne asks, leaning over the table to look in the box. Scooby frowns, thinking, then pulls some out and spreads them on the table. The ones Shaggy’s decided not to use are marked with small X’s in the corner. 

There’s a few photos of Daphne, identifiable only by the red hair pouring from under her helmet. She’s geared up in old road leathers and riding a gorgeous motorcycle past the viewpoint. A gang of rugged green-skinned bikers are crowded in the background, all wearing similar jackets and cheering - The Wild Brood, who came through town last spring. Daphne convinced their leader to give her riding lessons by beating him in a fistfight, which isn’t something Scooby really understands, but they seemed to enjoy it. 

A couple other photos are from the time they visited the McLear werewolf clan. Fred got pulled into a wrestling contest with some of the pups, at the expense of his white polo. The pups play dirty and they aren’t afraid of mud. He had to wash his clothes three times to get them clean.

Beneath some shots of a basking sea serpent, there’s a selfie of Shaggy and a pair of vampire girls - here in the Smoothie Shack, actually. It’s easy to recognize them as vampires because Shaggy prefers old film photography, which means the girls look like empty clothing. 

“I don’t know why he thinks these are bad,” Daphne whispers to him. “Photos are just memories you keep on paper, and these are all good memories.”

“Rhi runno,” Scooby shrugs. He doesn’t get it either, but he doesn’t have the same artistic sense as Shaggy. Or color vision, which is important, apparently. 

Daphne wrinkles her nose and leans back, sipping her smoothie as she watches Shaggy flipping through his scrapbook again. Scooby slides the photos back and goes back to his smoothie with enthusiasm. 

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally punctuated by Shaggy asking for a photo or the buzz of Daphne’s phone. Scooby finishes his smoothie and lays his head against the window, listening to the old jukebox in the corner. 

A jackalope hopping through the flowerbed snags his attention. It flops around, digging in the dirt with its antlers. He watches it unearth a flower and start chewing the stem with vigor. 

He smushes his nose against the window with a _whoof_ , making the jackalope notice him, but it just twitches it’s nose before returning to its snack. How rude. 

He amuses himself for a while making funny faces at it, trying to get a reaction. The jackalope doesn’t even flinch when he bares his teeth. It’s either very brave and thinks it can outrun him or very clever and understands how the glass protects it. 

After it’s eaten the whole flower it hops around again and settles in a patch of sunlight, looking so happy that Scooby can’t bring himself to bother it. He moves his head a little, lining it up with the reflections, and now it looks like it’s sitting on Daphne’s lap. Now _this_ would be a good photo.

“Oh! Hey Fred! Hey Velms!” her reflection calls towards the door, leaning out of the booth to look behind Shaggy. Scooby sits up straight and looks around as well. He can just see Velma’s brown curls, coming right up to Fred’s chin as they close the shop door. 

Fred spots them and waves as he heads up to the counter. Velma has to stand on her toes to see, then taps his shoulder and gestures at them saying something Scooby can’t quite hear. Fred nods and she turns towards the trio’s booth. Scooby nudges Shaggy to get his attention and they both wave to her as she gets close. 

“Hey Velms, how’d your shift go?” Daphne slides to the window to make space as Velma throws her bag under the table with a sigh. 

“Oh, you know,” she shrugs, giving Scooby a quick head scratch as he nuzzles against her in greeting, “Dad’s still out, something broke a window, and I wanted to slap a tourist so, hey! The usual!” 

Shaggy laughs at that, and Scooby chuckles. He’s had his own moments like that, especially with some of the worse tourists. It’s ridiculous how many people have never met a talking animal before. 

“Awww, did some jackass try to talk shit about us?” Daphne scoots over to give her space and wraps her arms around her as she sits down with a huff. “I’m sorry babe, we’ve been spreading the word of your brilliance but _some people_ just don’t want to hear it!” 

Velma’s cheeks are red as she growls and leans into the hug. “There was this _bitch_ in my group, some prissy purist white woman. Maybe her kid wanted to come but I know _she_ didn’t. _She_ should try to exorcise a ghost some time, see how _she_ likes it when we’re not around.” 

Daphne giggles. “Maybe we should do that. Sheriff Stone might _pay_ us to stay out of his way for a week.” 

“Rhe can rake a vacation!” Scooby suggests (not entirely) jokingly. “Rhystery Inc road rhip!” 

“Like, yeah!” Shaggy says as Velma’s frown twitches. “We can go out to my uncles’ place and like, see the sights on the way!”

Scooby throws an arm around Shaggy’s shoulder. “Riding rhe open rhoad rhum rawn rhu rusk,” he says dreamily, “rho rysteries, ro ronsters, rust rhe wind rin our rhair rand a rhong in our rearts.”

“Sleeping under the stars, showering in rivers,” Daphne adds wryly, and yeah Velma’s definitely trying to hide a grin now, “We’d be regular wildsfolk, wouldn’t we?”

“Oh, are we planning a camping trip?” Fred chimes in as he slides into the booth next to Shaggy. “That’d be swell! I haven’t been camping in years.” 

Daphne gives him a fond smile and shakes her head. “We were talking about leaving for the summer. Ditching our phones and living out of the van for months instead of solving mysteries. You in?” 

“We can’t do that!” Fred gasps in genuine shock, puffing out his chest in an attempt to look assertive. Bless him, he tries. “People count on us to help with their problems, we can’t just abandon them! Really, I’m disappointed in you four.”

Daphne’s response is to stick her tongue out, making Fred sputter indignantly. Shaggy laughs and Scooby shakes his head, grinning. 

Something prickles his senses as he does, and he looks at Velma just in time to see her hastily cover up a frown. That gives him pause. She usually doesn’t censor her frustrations around the gang - they’ve heard all her work horror stories and love to laugh about them. What could’ve… 

“Rhere in rhe rour rid it rappen?” he asks her, a hunch rising in the back of his brain. 

Velma’s strained smile twists into a grimace. The others look over to her and she bites her lip before sighing. 

“...Captain Cutler. She was so... _disgusted_ that we helped him.” 

Oh. Yeah, Fred probably hit that nerve by accident. He winces and deflates, so he must’ve realizes that. Scooby impulsively leans into Shaggy, his instincts proving correct when his friend leans back and sighs into his fur. Across the table Daphne buries her face in Velma’s hair with a mumbled “sorry”, and they all fall into an _un_ comfortable silence. 

Captain Cutler was a terrifying case, and Scooby knows how much it still weighs on everyone. He remembers the panic when they first found him: the scrape of a sword, the vicious chill sinking through their skin, and the coppery stink that clung to him like a veil. The day became a nightmare in an instant, a frantic flight from the frightful phantom, and only by luck had they avoided his vengeance. 

That harrowing escape led to a week of sleepless nights digging through old maps and journals, desperate to find _something_ they could work with before he claimed more victims. They’d failed. By the time they’d found a usable lead, half a dozen sailors had been hospitalized and the CDP was in a panic. 

With no equipment and no backup, they’d ventured into the old seaside caves, the mad Captain stalking them all the way. Their clue led them to an old half-flooded smuggler’s den and a hidden room filled with rotting, rusting treasure chests - the plunder of the British seas, buried for centuries just as Cutler had left it. 

It wasn’t even a relief. Cutler arrived to see them crouched together and jumped straight in to attack. If he and Shaggy hadn’t impulsively pushed the gang away from the treasure, they wouldn’t have left the caves alive. The thin scar down his flank is proof of that. 

As scary as getting slashed by a madman was, it was nothing compared to what came next. Cutler, his dying vow fulfilled and his earthly tether broken, fell into hysterics. His body rent itself apart, spectral flesh flaying from his bones in strips as he lashed out in a mad frenzy. Scooby hadn’t wanted to watch, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away either. He expects the sight to haunt him for the rest of his life. 

It’s the most intense case they’ve ever had, and Scooby hopes it stays that way. He would happily go the rest of his life without ever seeing the gang face danger like that. Even _hearing_ about someone demeaning their efforts is outrageous. 

A pressure against his side reminds him to check himself, and he cuts off a rising growl as Shaggy hugs him tighter.

“Well you guys look like someone salted your smoothies,” a bright voice breaks the somber moment. Scooby blinks and looks over at the speaker, who turns out to be a server with familiar short pink hair and a matching poodle skirt under their white Smoothie Shack uniform. 

“Have some new ones to clear that bad taste out. I got your usuals, slowpokes, and a refill for the early birds too,” they chirp. Scooby looks at their tray and, sure enough, there’s five familiar smoothies balanced on it. 

“Like, you’re an angel, Alex!” Relief audible, Shaggy takes his and Scooby’s glasses first, reaching straight over Fred’s head to grab them. 

Alex laughs and winks as they hand out the other smoothies. “Well yeah, shit, y’all’re our best customers. You get the good service. So, what’s got my favorite kids down?” 

The five of them glance at each other, all hesitant to address the elephant at the table.

“Just some tourists, talking about stuff they don’t understand,” Velma speaks first, still wrapped up in Daphne’s arms. Alex raises their eyebrows and whistles sympathetically as they scan the group’s faces again. 

“Yeah? What, did someone say we’ve ‘sold ourselves to monsters?’ Jimmy said he had that on his shift, maybe the same as your folks. Don’t pay them any mind, you know they’d cut the horns off a jackalope and call us charlatans.” 

Velma chuckles, and Scooby can tell her heart’s not fully in it, but the honest effort’s enough to bring grins to the others’ faces too. “You should talk to the Lodge,” she says wryly, “those guys would love you.”

“You’d think so, but they don’t return my calls,” Alex grins. “Can’t win over everyone, I guess.” 

There’s a shout from behind the counter and Alex gives them a salute. “Gotta go. Good luck with your people problems!” 

The gang wave goodbye as they leave and lapse into silence for a third time, Velma lifting Daphne’s arms away and picking up her smoothie. This one’s not as uncomfortable, more tired than tense, but they all seem just as unwilling to break it. 

“Hey now,” Fred finally says, grabbing his own glass with an awkward grin, “We’re supposed to be celebrating! How about a toast?” He holds the glass out to the middle. “Here’s to another mystery solved!”

 _Good old Fred,_ Scooby thinks as he lifts his glass for a toast. _Can’t be intimidating to save his life, but he can always lift our spirits._

They _clink_ glasses one after another with an exchange of “cheers!” Scooby tips his back and downs the whole drink in one. It’s freshly made and perfectly cold, just how he likes it. 

“I still don’t understand how you two don’t get brain freeze from that,” Daphne comments, watching Shaggy do the same. 

“Like I guess it’s just our superpower!” Shaggy laughs, adding the glass to his already-significant stack. “I dunno about you but I think it’s a good one!” 

Scooby nods in agreement, licking the inside of his glass clean. 

“It’s certainly appealing,” Velma says as she slowly sips on her own drink. “I’d love being able to chug my coffee cold in the morning.”

“Velma. Babe.” Daphne says seriously, definitely not hiding a smile behind her smoothie. “I love you but your morning routine terrifies me.”

“Cold coffee isn’t weird?”

“Maybe to you, I can’t stand it! You’re never making breakfast at my house again, it took a _week_ to clean your weird grounds out of the machine.” She jabs Velma in the side, to squirming protests. “Where did you even _get_ that stuff from?” 

“Roland saves - some for me when - I - ask!” Velma sputters, flailing her arms to fend off more pokes. “It’s his old - army mix - its way stronger _shIT_ -”

Her hand smacks into the cup stack, sending glasses clattering across the table and knocking the full smoothies over. Well-tested reflexes let Shaggy pull his scrapbook away and Scooby snag Fred’s drink before it tips. Daphne’s isn’t as lucky, and the smoothie spills across the surface in a sticky spatter. 

“Shit, sorry,” Velma hisses as she and Daphne scramble for napkins to wipe it up. “Did anything spill on your book?”

“Like I don’t think so,” Shaggy replies, quickly checking it over for damage before setting it aside and grabbing some napkins too. 

“What have you got in there anyways?” Fred asks, glancing over as he quickly re-stacks the cups and holds them up. “I thought you had a scrapbook already?”

“Like, that one’s just for me. This one’s for like, photography shows and stuff.” Shaggy looks embarrassed for a moment. Scooby sighs and gives him an encouraging nudge. “And like, maybe colleges,” he mumbles, almost as an afterthought. 

“Oh, that’s great! I didn’t know you were considering apps already.” Velma looks over with interest. “Let us know if we can help. I have copies of all our files if you want to use them.”

“I dunno, like I’ll take a look,” Shaggy says, his cheeks turning pink. Scooby grins and shoves him playfully. He’s been telling him for ages that the gang would be thrilled he’s thinking of studying photography. 

“Can we see what you’ve done so far?” Fred carefully places the glasses back on the table and sits down. Shaggy only hesitates for a moment, barely noticeable, before laying the book out again. 

“Okay. Like, it’s split up by subject. I’m starting with like, people and creatures from our cases, ‘cause we see a lot of interesting things. I was thinking like, maybe doing a section on Coolsville’s architecture next? We’ve got a lot of great buildings…”

Fred and Velma lean in to listen as he explains, offering input occasionally when he falters. Scooby catches Daphne’s eye and she gives a discreet thumbs up before joining in. 

He’s so proud of Shaggy for showing off. He doesn’t do that nearly as much as he deserves to.

* * *

A couple hours and many smoothies later, Shaggy sags to the side and leans against Fred with a yawn.

“Like, that hit the spot! Nothing better than a good smoothie to smooth over a bad day!” he says contentedly as Fred shifts an arm around his shoulders. He can see Velma side eyeing him and smirking, and he sticks his tongue out when Fred won’t notice. She can keep her thoughts to herself, thank you very much. 

“We should head out soon,” Daphne says, glancing out the window. The sun is just starting to set, a soft glow washing out the blue horizon. By anyone’s standards it’s still early, but after yesterday an early evening sounds great.

“Oh yeah, how do you want to split the bill?” Fred asks as he opens his wallet. Daphne scoffs at that and reaches into her bag, digging around for something. 

“Don’t be silly, Fred,” she says as she pulls out her checkbook. “I told Shaggy and Scooby it’s my treat.” Fred and Velma both start to protest but Daphne holds up a hand. “Nope! No arguing! I’m paying and that’s final.” 

She waves for Alex and the two turn to glare indignantly at Shaggy. He raises his hands defensively. “Like, don’t blame me! We’ve been saying the same thing since we woke up but she’s set on it.”

Velma scowls at both of them and Fred fidgets in his seat. “Can we at least pay for the tip?” he asks cautiously _._ Daphne pauses her pen and looks at him blankly for a moment before glancing furtively at Shaggy. He recognizes the look, the _I just accidentally flaunted my family’s wealth, didn’t I_ look that shows up sometimes. 

He gets it - both of their families tend to treat money as the solution to everything, including personal affairs, though the Blakes are provably worse at unlearning it. They try not to be obvious about it, and Fred and Velma pretend to ignore it, but he knows it makes them uncomfortable. 

“Like, it’s fine Daph,” he says in his best casual tone. “Thanks for treating us, but we’ll get our tips.”

She nods silently and takes the bill from Alex as they arrive. Velma tugs the paper from her hand and lays it down so she can see the total, then quickly scribbles out some calculations. 

“There.” She slides the paper to the center and ducks under the table for her bag. “Cover your own orders.” 

They all check her math and pull out their wallets. Shaggy thinks Alex caught most of the conversation, but thankfully they don’t comment on it as the gang puts down tips. 

“Alright kids, get yourselves home,” they say, waving as the gang heads for the door. “Take it from a med student, the best cure for a long day is a long night’s sleep!” 

“Yes, _doctor_.” The gang waves back as they step out into the early evening. 

A gentle breeze greets them, dancing through the lot in a whimsical spiral. Spring is here in full, and the weather’s been getting better every day. Shaggy can’t wait until summer. 

He lifts his arms high and stretches, his joints complaining loudly about suddenly having to work. Scooby and Daphne add their own bodies’ grievances in a sharp series of cracking stretches and slow rolls as they work the stiffness from their own limbs. 

Maybe sitting in the Smoothie Shack for hours wasn’t a great idea after wading through sewers yesterday. 

“That is so gross.” Velma watches Daphne bend her spine back, almost into a c-shape, and shudders. “Bodies should _not_ sound like that.” 

“Do you want a lift?” Fred asks, looking between Scooby and Shaggy. “You guys have to be pretty full, and yesterday was a lot of tough walking.”

“Like that would be great!” Shaggy was expecting to just walk home, but driving sounds way better. He pokes mournfully at his stomach. “I feel like a bowl of jelly in a horse’s saddlebags.” 

“Rhame,” Scooby nudges him towards the van and looks up at the girls. “Rhat rabout rhu?”

Daphne shakes her head. “I think I’ll walk. I heard there’s a sale at the Quilted Road and I want to check it out.”

“You know they’re almost closed, right?” Velma asks, raising an eyebrow in implicit judgement. She’s good at it, but not good enough to affect Daphne. She just shrugs.

“I just want to check what the sale covers, I’ll go back tomorrow to actually browse,” she says innocently. “I’m not _that_ bitch, I won’t stay long.” 

“I hope not,” Velma jabs her in the side before looking back at Fred and shaking her head. “I’m walking too. If I get jumped by some spook, look for me on the news.”

She says it like a joke, but with their record it’s really not. Shaggy doesn’t want to count how many times one of the gang has stumbled across a mystery while _literally just walking around town._ He tried, once. He didn’t like how high he got.

“Oh hey, that reminds me.” Fred pauses halfway into the Mystery Machine and looks at them with a frown, “My dad’s worried about last night. Something about the council being suspicious of him. He asked us not to tackle any cases that might make the news until summer.”

“Really? Everything we _do_ makes the news,” Velma snipes back good-naturedly. “Did he have any suggestions? Maybe we could look after Mr. Owens’s carbuncle again or spend the summer mapping Howler territories, that _probably_ wouldn’t put us in the papers.”

“Like I dunno,” Shaggy can’t help but grin, “remember that time we tried to like, interview mermaids and ended up, like, making a whole new pollution law? We could totally find trouble walking pets.” 

The girls laugh and even Fred looks amused at the memory, though he quickly schools his face into something stern. “I know, gang, but this is serious. He’s really worried about it. Can we at least _try_ to stay on the down-low?” 

Shaggy glances at the girls. They look skeptical, unsurprisingly. Neither of them have ever been impressed by Mr. Jones’s politics, and they’re not the types to sit out on a case when given the chance. No way they want to back off.

He’s about to joke that he and Scooby are happy to stay away from _anything_ spooky if someone asks, when he feels a tugging on his leg. He looks down to see Scooby looking back with a frown. There’s something in his expression, an uncertainty that rarely appears on his face, and Shaggy tilts his head in an unspoken question. 

Scooby shakes his head slightly, eyeing Fred in mild concern. He seems to have sensed something in their leader’s attitude that the others haven’t, something that stops him from joking about it. 

“Like, I agree with Fred,” he says instead, trusting his friend’s instincts. “This case took like a month, we deserve a break. And like, school's out soon anyways. We don’t want to like, go overboard on summer plans already.”

Daphne and Velma blink at him in unison and he shrugs nervously. He knows he’s not the serious type, but neither is Scooby and _he’s_ usually persuasive when he tries. Shaggy tries to straighten out of his natural slouch into something confident.

The girls exchange a quick series of looks and expressions that he doesn’t recognize. They use different facial cues with each other than with him and Scooby, and he’s never quite figured them out. 

After a few seconds Daphne huffs, placing her hands on her hips, and Velma rolls her eyes, which are pretty easy to understand gestures on anyone. Scooby must think the same because he bounds up and licks Daphne’s face happily as she opens her mouth.

“All right, all right!” Daphne laughs as she holds him away, “We’ll try to stay out of trouble, we promise.” Velma silently mouths “ _try”_ behind her but nods in agreement. Some of the tension leaves Fred’s face and he smiles as he slides fully into the driver’s seat. 

“Thanks, gang. You sure you two don’t want a ride home too?”

“We’re fine, don’t worry.” Velma waves her hands, brushing off the offer. “You and Shaggy can head home together. Alone. At night.” 

“Okay! You two be careful too,” Fred salutes them goodbye and starts the Mystery Machine, which spares Shaggy from having to come up with a reply. 

He climbs into the back, wraps himself in a stray blanket, and settles in next to Scooby as Fred backs out into the evening traffic.

* * *

In between commenting on obvious tourists rushing home before dusk, Fred fills the trip with a running commentary on his latest project, his bolas launcher, explaining the last steps before it’s ready to bring on mysteries. Shaggy listens idly, one hand scratching between Scooby’s shoulders as he watches Fred gesture wildly while describing some mechanism that he doesn’t really understand. That’s fine, though. Fred has a natural talent for filling silence with warmth, even when Shaggy can’t follow what he’s saying. 

“... should be done this week! I can’t wait to try it out, I bet it can trap a monster from fifty yards!” he exclaims as they pass through the gates to Fairbrooks Residential, their subdivision. 

“Like that’s great Fred,” Shaggy smiles at his excitement. He knows he’s been working on the Bolobow, as Scooby calls it, for a while, and it’s clear he’s been getting frustrated with it. It’s good to see him making progress. 

Last night was a chilling reminder of the risks they take, and the unpredictability of their work. Knowing Fred’s working on ways to keep everyone safe is comforting. 

“Okay guys, we’re here!” Fred says as they pull into the Rogers’ driveway. He’s technically right, but considering their driveway is longer than most _blocks_ , it’s a little early. Well, whatever. 

Scooby dozed off at some point so Shaggy gently shakes him awake as the house comes into view. The big dog rolls over as the van comes to a stop and blinks up at him dully, which he can relate to. Shaggy himself yawns as he opens the back doors. “Like thanks for the ride,” he calls to the front, waving at the rearview mirror. Fred salutes back with a smile before they climb out and shut the doors. 

“See you guys Monday!” he calls out his window as the Mystery Machine pulls around and trundles back down the drive. Scooby and Shaggy wait until he disappears behind a bend before turning and heading up the walkway. 

The sky’s starting to fade into night, but the house is bright and warm. They’ve left their Christmas lights up late this year and the colorful strings outline the place exactly like a double decker gingerbread house. The design is, surprisingly, _not_ Shaggy’s - his mom had the house remodeled years ago just to make it work, and it’s been tradition ever since. 

“Stringbean! Little Hound!” 

They’re halfway to the door when a cheery voice makes them pause. A bright spark darts out from behind the porchlight, rushing up and stopping to hover at shoulder height in front of them. Shaggy holds his hands out and the figure alights gently in his palm, resolving into a tiny humanoid figure dressed in a leafy tunic. The fairy gives him an extravagant bow and a brilliant smile. 

“Fair winds to you, friends!” he beams.

“Fair winds to you too, Fizzlet! Like, what brings you out of the woods?” Shaggy asks the grinning fairy. 

“What, I need a reason to visit the neighbors?” Fizzlet puts a hand over his chest in indignation. “I didn’t know you two were such _Fredricks_ . Maybe your parents are right, he _is_ a bad influence.” 

“Like you’re right for the wrong reasons,” Shaggy laughs. “Do you know how many trespassing charges we’ve like, scraped out of? There’s like three new ones that you don’t know about.”

Fizzlet lets out a high cackle. “Fantastic! Good to hear he’s doing well for himself. I almost worry about him sometimes. Ain’t healthy for him to be around lawmen so much, you kids do me proud.”

“Rhon’t rhell rhem you rhaid rat,” Scooby shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Rhi bet rhey’d rhove it.” 

“Like totally, don’t,” Shaggy shudders. “Daph and Velms already think laws are, like, guidelines, they don’t need encouragement.” 

“But like really, man,” he adds, looking at the fairy still giggling in his hands. “We haven’t seen you for ages. What’ve you been up to?”

His cackle dies down at once. Fizzlet straightens a nonexistent tie and looks up, face smoothed into an impassive mask. A shiver prickles at Shaggy’s neck and he tries not to flinch from the sudden change. 

“We’ve been talking of shifting the village ‘round.” He folds his hands, staring. “Some of the trees are too big now, the houses are bitin’ into them. I’m supposed to show you what we’re thinkin’ of changing. You got a minute?” 

Shaggy blinks, trying to push down his lethargy as he processes _that_ statement and everything it leaves unsaid. Fizzlet’s bubbly and open and friendly, and he’s not surprised they had him propose a deal. 

Fizzlet’s village has filled the woods behind their house for decades. Inexplicable lights and sounds drift from the trees at night, and folks who wander past the treeline often disappear for days before turning up somewhere else entirely. It’s been that way for decades, and despite many complaints and several housing companies’ best efforts, the woods remained totally untouched by humans until one day when a young Shaggy and Scooby got lost after dark. 

Fizzlet happened across them, hiding in the shadow of a fallen log, and offered them shelter until dawn. It’s lucky their parents never tried to tell them fairies were dangerous, or they would’ve run away and gotten even more lost. Instead they spent the night sharing recipes with the fairies and helping with village renovations. 

They’d been some of the first people to really appreciate his art projects, something worth _way_ more than a few hours of construction, and he’d repaid that by promising to help more in the future if they ask.

Apparently that future is tonight. Not that he minds. The fairies are good folk; secluded and close-knit, but accommodating to the few neighbors they keep in touch with. 

“Like just a sec, I’ll run through the kitchen and meet you out back,” he decides. If Fizzlet’s expecting a business meeting, he should at least offer refreshments. It’s only polite. 

“Right-o!” Fizzlet hops from his hands onto Scooby’s head and sits cross-legged. Scooby wiggles cheerfully and prances around the side of the house, carefully keeping his head level so he doesn’t bounce the fairy off. Again, Shaggy’s reminded of the Blakes’ show horses, and he smiles as he opens the front door. 

“Like, I’m home!” he announces as he shuts it behind him. 

“Hello, dear,” his mom replies from, he thinks it’s the main room. “Did you have a good hunt?” 

“Like yeah mom, it was great!” Shaggy waves as he passes by, heading for the kitchen. “We caught the Rat King and gave the Sheriff our files, so that case’s alm **_-oooff!_ **“ 

He’s cut off in a _whooof_ as a squealing figure crashes into his stomach, almost knocking him over. He grabs her to steady himself and pushes away, trying to glare at her through his wheezing. 

Sugie looks up at him, sweet and spirited and _way too strong_ for a seven-year-old. “Shaggy! I din’t see you t’day, w’re were you? Mom’n Dad said y’were huntin’ but they din’t say wh’re!”

He winces. His parents are used to them coming home late, but Sugie’s still a kid. She must’ve been worried all day. 

“Like sorry Sugie, we’ve been at Daphne’s. We went hunting in the sewers and like, we wanted to wash and relax right away.” She pouts at him, unyielding, and he pouts back. “Come on, don’t blame us! We had to like, throw away our clothes our first time in the sewers, we can’t come home like that again!” He rests a hand on her head and she knocks it away, sticking her tongue out. “Like, we were out on West Alphonse, no _way_ we’d walk home from there!”

Sugie tilts her head, screwing up her face like she wants to argue, but nods in acceptance. “A’kay but you gotta tell me ‘bout it now!“ She grabs his hands and tries to tug him away. He stumbles before finding his footing and pulling back, laughing.

“In like a bit. Fizzlet came by on business so we gotta meet with him.” 

“Ugh,” Sugie wrinkles her nose at that. “Tha’s boring. I wanna hear ‘bout it now!”

“Sugie,” their mom chides as she appears in the kitchen, “let your brother finish his responsibilities. You can be patient that long, can’t you?”

She ruffles Sugie’s hair as she whines and leans in to kiss Shaggy’s forehead. “We’re glad to see you home safe, dear. Your father has been watching his phone all day, you know how he gets.” 

“Like, we said we were eating out!” Shaggy protests, giving her a quick hug. “You know we got to Daph’s all the time!”

“Oh, indeed, but he does worry. Sugie didn’t help his nerves either.” She eyes him critically and he shrinks a little. He didn’t _mean_ to, he was just preoccupied yesterday. Sugie looks between them and quickly mimics their mom’s expression. She’s too young to do it well, but Shaggy expects her to be terrifying in a few years. 

They both stare at him for a long, judgemental moment before his mom smiles gently and pats his head. “You said your hunt went well?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, glad she didn’t press any further. “Like we got the rats, Velma took them away, and Fred showed the Sheriff our evidence. Walts, like, won’t know what hit him!”

She laughs, low and satisfied. “I look forward to hearing the full story. Do rejoin us after your business meeting, dear.”

“Like, totally!” She nods to him as she picks up Sugie and carries her out, accompanied by chants of “Hurry up hurry up hurry up!” 

Grinning to himself, Shaggy digs around in the fridge for a small bottle of honey wine they keep at the back just for these occasions. It’s ridiculously sweet and Fizzlet loves it. He grabs a small thimble, some paper, and a pencil, and knocks on the back door before opening it. 

“You’re late.” Fizzlet glances up and folds his arms, a fierce impatience on his face. He’s upside down leaning off of Scooby’s muzzle, kicking his legs, so Shaggy bets he’s not actually upset. He silently fills the thimble with wine and holds it out to the fairy, who grins and winks as he accepts the drink. “Lateness forgiven!”

“So like, what’cha need me to do?” Shaggy asks, laying the pad on the steps and sitting down. Fizzlet rolls over carefully and takes a deep drink before fluttering down to grab the pencil. 

“We’re expandin’ the village hall and the Grove,” he begins as he starts sketching, “need more room for th’new folks and we want t’ start some new grafts. That’s a new wing an’ a couple of plots. We’re also thinkin’ of building a dance hall here in the new-growths, an’ we want t’ wire in a radio too...” 

Shaggy absently notes his diction slipping as the lines slowly form a rough map of the village. Another thing that endears the little fairy to them - he meets people on even ground when talking. Once he works up momentum, he drops formality _fast_. 

“... put up some lights an’ mirrors, add some lounge space over here, aaan’ tha’s what we’re thinkin’ of!” Fizzlet finishes sketching with a twirl and tosses the pencil in a spiral over Scooby’s head. Scooby snaps his head up, leaning back to keep it in view, and carefully snags it in his jaws. Fizzlet applauds and Scooby bows his head with mock dignity, giggling around the pencil. 

Shaggy smiles at their antics as he examines the map. It’s rough, but he’s seen the village enough to make sense of it. He tugs the pencil from Scooby’s mouth and wipes it on his pants before taking notes; marking buildings he knows and the materials they’re made of, estimating the dimensions of the doodled additions, and comparing those numbers to his existing stock. It takes some minutes before he works out a number, and as long again before he’s sure of his estimate. 

“Like, I think I can do it,” he announces, looking up for Fizzlet. And up further, because the fairy’s now doing handstands on the end of a long stick that’s itself balanced on Scooby’s nose. Fizzlet flips around on his hands, his face breaking into a wide smile. 

“Aw, I knew y’were the right one t’ ask!” he says as he pushes off into a triple backflip and catches midair with a quick flutter. “Y’sure y’got time for it?” 

“Yeah, like most of it’s stuff I’m used to,” he nods. “I’ll need to, like, visit and measure things out first, but I can do the buildings. And like, if you want, I think Fred knows someone who does computer stuff. She can maybe help with the audio stuff?” 

Fizzlet tilts his head to the side and stares. It reminds Shaggy of a cat, which he’ll never say out loud. After several seconds he squints and frowns. “D’you trust her?” 

It’s a fair question. The fairies might be fond of him and Scooby, but that’s not enough to let them bring guests to the village. Shaggy considers it carefully, then shrugs. 

“Like, I don’t really know her,” he says honestly. “Fred says she’s cool, but that’s all I got. Sorry.” 

Fizzlet’s head slowly tilts the other way, unblinking, until it’s a mirrored position. It’s _deeply_ unsettling in a way that’s hard to describe. Shaggy waits patiently, and it’s easy to hold back the shiver at the base of his spine. Fizzlet might be creepy sometimes, just at the edge of uncanniness, but he’s a _friend,_ and friends aren’t scary at all. 

Fizzlet keeps staring for several moments longer, hovering just at eye level, until finally he blinks and his expression softens.

“I’ll see what the village thinks,” he says at last and drops down to look at Shaggy's notes. “We’ll need human hands anyways if we work with your kind’s lights. I’ll let y’know.” 

“Like cool man,” Shaggy nods, absently scratching Scooby behind the ears. “So like, I’ll see you soon?” 

“Sooner if y’keep this bottle ‘round,” Fizzlet grins, holding his empty thimble out expectantly. Shaggy laughs and fills it again. Fizzlet hugs the drink to his chest and leans back, downing it around his giggles. 

He finishes it just before he tips over, then completes the motion and flips to place the thimble upside-down on Scooby’s nose. He strikes a pose just above it, a cocky half-salute, and kicks off into the air with a giggle. They wave as he circles a few times before shooting off towards the woods. 

Shaggy leans back on the stairs, sighing as Scooby plops his head down in his lap. He always loves talking to the fairies. Their cheer is contagious even on bad days, and it’s almost better than a fresh meal for lifting his spirits. 

“Hey kids.” 

The voice is faint, barely audible over the rustling trees, but Scooby picks his head up so he probably didn’t imagine it. Shaggy blinks and looks around. Fizzlet’s still there, hovering right at the edge of their yard. It’s impossible to make out his expression this far away, but he seems almost _nervous_ , which is _weird._ Usually, fairies are nothing if not confident. He sits up straight and looks harder. “Like, what’s up man?”

Fizzlet flickers back and forth for a moment, in a way that sets off a warning bell in the back of his mind, before drawing a sharp, hissing breath and going still. 

“There’s whispers in the trees, and an ill wind blowing,” he says, and _what_ , what does that mean? “Keep an eye on the skies and your friends nearby. You didn’t hear it from me.”

He flickers out of sight before Shaggy can even open his mouth. 

That’s concerning. 

Shaggy’s never seen him act like that. He’s never seen _any_ fairy act like that, and they’ve been around fairies a _lot_ . They’re coy and cryptic and they like to tease, but they’re never outright _ominous_ like that.

The shiver he’s been suppressing races down his spine and back up to settle at the base of his skull in a bundle of nerves. He’s not scared so much as _rattled_ , right down to his gut. They’re comfortable with the fairies after so long, but this? This is new and weird and he doesn’t like it. 

“Raggy?” 

Scooby definitely felt him shake, because he’s looking up in concern. Shaggy tries to give a reassuring smile, but Scooby just frowns and bumps against his chest. Well, he didn’t expect it to work anyways. “Are rhu rokay?” 

He shakes his head loosely. “Like sure, buddy. It’s just weird, y’know?” 

“Rheah,” Scooby huffs. “Rhy rhan’t he rust rhell us rhats rong?”

“Like I’m more worried that he didn’t want anyone to know where we, like, heard it from,” Shaggy says, more to himself than to Scooby. “Like, maybe something else’s wrong in the village?” 

Scooby cocks his head, ears twitching as he stares out at the forest. His jaws are open in a silent growl, but Shaggy knows it comes from a place of worry. 

They sit in silence for a long moment, lost in their thoughts, until Shaggy yawns again. “I guess we’ll just, like, see what happens,” he sighs before tugging Scooby’s collar lightly. “Come on. Like, Sugie must be climbin’ the walls by now, let’s go have storytime while the house’s still here.” 

Scooby gives a soft, genuine laugh and pushes him up by the arm. He nudges past the door as soon as Shaggy pulls the handle and trots off down the hall towards the kitchen. Shaggy pauses for a moment, giving the treeline one last look, before he follows his friend into their house and lets the door swing shut.


	3. The Hound of Coolsville, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been three months but I've finally got a third chapter! Writing is hard, y'all. 
> 
> Heads up for this chapter - the gang encounters a mind-affecting phenomenon reminiscent of intrusive thoughts, so if that's particularly uncomfortable, be warned.

Apsten Rd., Coolsville Outskirts

7:43 P.M., Sunday

* * *

Dark clouds rumble in the sky, a black shroud broken only by flashes of lightning and the faint glow of a waxing moon. The rain twists across the road in curtains, blurring the night and reflecting the glare of a lone car’s lights as it carefully makes its way through howling trees. Inside the car, four people are trying their best to drown out the storm. Or, well, _one_ person is - the driver, loudly singing along to the radio as the others pretend not to hear him. 

In the back, the boy winces as his dad nails a particularly high note. “Dad,” he says exasperatedly, “can you _please_ not do that inside?” 

“Aw, lighten up Jason,” his dad laughs. “It’s a perfect night for _siiiiiinging in the rain~”_

His mom glances back at their groans and rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, Brittany dear,” she stage-whispers. “We can’t get him to stop sometimes. It’s a family obligation, you’ll get used to it.”

Brittany smiles and grabs onto her boyfriend’s arm. “Aw, I don’t mind. It’s okay!” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “That’s what family’s for, right?”

Jason feels his face heating up and glares at his mom, who smiles innocently back at him. She opens her mouth to speak, but his dad starts hammering the wheel like drums and she snaps around to face him. “ _Steven_ , hands on the _wheel,”_ she hisses. 

“C’mon, it’s fine,” he waves her off. “I’m watching the road, I’m not gonna- _what the HELL-!?_ ”

Something flashes past the windshield, black and blurry and huge, and suddenly the car’s veering sideways and Brittany’s screaming and Jason shuts his eyes, holding her tight as the world twists around them. Everything lurches violently, a terrifying shudder wracking through the car, before it comes to a sharp stop that throws them flat to the side. 

After a few long seconds, his brain stops spinning and he feels okay enough to open his eyes. Brittany’s face is inches from his own, flushed and dazed as she stares back and _wow_ _that’s hot_ he thinks despite himself. _No! Not the time_!

“A-are you ok?” he asks, trying not to think about what this looks like and failing. 

“Yes,” she says softly, breathless, and that doesn’t help at all. He should probably sit up before this gets uncomfortable. But she’s smiling at him and panting, and she doesn’t get up either so. Maybe not. 

“ _Dammit_ !” his dad shouts which, ok, no thanks, that’s a mood killer for sure. They both jerk up and glance away, and he’s probably as red as her as he looks towards the front. His dad’s furiously trying the ignition while his mom glares silently, an ‘ _I told you so’_ obvious on her face. The engine’s wheezing feebly, and he doesn’t need much car knowledge to guess that it’s not gonna start soon. He can’t see anything through the front window, so the headlights are either off or broken. They must’ve landed in a ditch or something. 

“It’s not working,” his mom snaps. “Go check it before you break it more.” 

His dad huffs, but takes the keys out and fishes between the seats. 

“Jason. Get out and hold this for me.” He hands over a flashlight as he shoves his door open. Jason gives Brittany a shrug and a quick kiss on the cheek before following him out into the rain. 

“Keep it steady,“ his dad says as he crouches to examine the front. Jason tries, hunching his shoulders against the cold rain. It’s sharp, biting, stinging his fingers and trickling down his neck, and he can’t help but shudder as the chill pierces straight through him. 

The car looks worse than he expected. The whole left half is splattered with mud and the side mirror’s bent flat to the door. The front bumper looks like someone went nuts with a golf club, all warped and dented, and something silver’s glinting under the muddy hood. 

He can just make out a weird pattern of scratches, like someone dug into it with a key or something, but spaced out into four neat clusters. He looks closer as his dad fiddles with the bumper. There’s three or four lines per cluster, and they’re _deep._ The metal is visibly torn through in jagged, peeling strips that wrap across the whole hood and down the side. That can’t be normal - there’s nothing out here tough enough to do that, and anyways shouldn’t it have just bounced off the hood? 

A thought flickers by and lodges in his brain, and this time his shudder isn’t from the cold.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were _claw_ marks. 

“Well, damn,” his dad sighs, and Jason’s happy for the distraction. “Looks like it’s bad. Go grab flares from the trunk. I’ll call the tow truck and get us out of here.”

He hands over the key and waves Jason away, already muttering angrily at his phone. Jason hurries around the car to do as asked. 

He waves his light around absently as he does, the scratches still _scratching_ at his thoughts and rattling his nerves. Is the road too dark in places? Are the trees swaying too much or are they too still, too silent? Is that something approaching over there or just a _shadow moving fast_ **_close too close GAH!_ **

He shrieks and flinches back, and his feet slip in the mud. Something _twists_ as he hits the ground, hard, and a lance of pain stabs up his leg. 

“Jason?” He vaguely notes his dad’s voice through his pain as he frantically sweeps his light through the rain, looking for the _thing_ he saw. 

“T-th-there’s something here!” he shouts in panic, not caring if it hears him. Whatever _it_ is. He grabs at the car door and shakily pulls himself up. His skin burns against his soaked jacket, hot and feverish from fear. His heart pounds painfully, and it’s all he can do to ignore the panicked roaring in his ears as he tries to listen past the downpour.

Wait. That’s not in his head. That’s coming from behind him. 

He doesn’t know why he turns around. Doesn’t know why he’s not yanking the door open and hiding inside. As his eyes land on the sight behind him, the source of the growl, he doesn’t know anything but furious black flesh and white fangs, rising from the ground as a specter of death. And then it leaps, an agonized howl piercing through the storm, and he doesn’t know anything at all.

* * *

1:15 P.M., Tuesday

* * *

“... and in the end, after over two dozen accusations, the girls were put to death in the town square, painting a black mark that has dominated the town’s history ever since. Of course, .-. -.. there remains extensive _\- .-. .--._ debate _.. -.. .- .-.-.-_ as to the _exact -. ---_ circumstances of _.--.these .-.._ _events, but_ _... -Mister_ Jones. _Miss_ Dinkley.”

Fred jumps in his seat as Mr. Donovan slams a hand on his desk. “Please refrain from such disruptive activities.” He looks between them with a glare and Fred can hear muffled snickers from the other kids. “I understand your desire to _show off_ , but the classroom is _not_ an appropriate place. Save it for your miscreant friends.” 

“Yessir Mr. Donovan,” Velma chirps at once, with so much pep that even _Fred_ knows she’s faking it. Mr. Donovan frowns at her for a second before sighing and returning his attention to the board. 

As soon as he turns his back she looks over at Fred and raps out ..-. / ..- quickly on her desk, rolling her eyes. He responds with a stern look, which she pointedly ignores in favor of her phone. Mr. Donovan taps to the next slide, showing a flow chart? With names?

“As I was saying, the events that came to define Salem are highly disputed by historians. The townspeople did much to strike the events from their history, and their descendents are infamously silent about any records they may possess. Your textbooks contain the sum of the public accounts.” 

Oh, it’s a genealogy chart. That makes sense. He wonders where it came from - there’s a frankly unprofessional number of empty spaces, but that does emphasize the point. 

Mr. Donovan clasps his hands together with finality. “So, does anyone have any questions?

Nobody raises a hand. They’re all busy sneaking glances at the clock, waiting for the bell. Mr. Donovan is notoriously strict about class time. He can’t keep them after, but he can and _will_ issue demerits for trying to leave early. It’s not really fair, but he has tenure and the PTA hasn’t been able to do anything about it. 

He looks between the front row for several moments before nodding and shutting off the board. “Well. If you all feel you sufficiently understand the subject, I’m sure you will demonstrate equal understanding should I pose a quiz next week.” The class groans in unison and he smiles. It looks slightly out of place, but Fred doesn’t know why. “Why, I thought with your apparent dismissals, you would be more confident for it. Perhaps you should have asked questions.”

Half a dozen hands shoot up at that, but the bell cuts off any questions they might have. The few that try to continue are drowned out by everyone grabbing their books and getting up to leave. Except for Velma, who’s sitting and frowning at her phone. 

“For homework, read chapters 22-24 and answer the questions for each one,” Mr. Donovan calls as they all head for the door. Fred follows at the back, lingering at the door for Velma to pack her things.

Something thumps his back and a cheerful voice sounds behind him. “Hey big man! You good for practice today?” He looks around to see a couple of his wrestling friends, Red and Billy, grinning. 

“The invitational’s coming, dude, you gotta show some time soon!” Red grabs him in a light headlock and needles him in the side. “We gotta see how we measure up to our Master of Capture!”

“Aw come on, you guys’re fine without me,” he laughs, twisting out of Red’s grasp and pulling an arm around his back before pinning it loosely with his own.

“Dude.” Billy glances between them with raised eyebrows. “I know you know about irony. Check yourself and say that again.” 

Fred blinks in confusion before looking down at Red and, ok yeah, he can see his point now. Red’s struggling against his grip, but his expression looks exasperated and he’s not pulling very hard. Fred lets go sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Red shakes his arm with a grin. “No prob dude. So really, you down for today? You _know_ you’re the best.” 

Fred considers his homework load for a moment. It’s only Tuesday, they haven’t had much assigned yet, so he nods. “Yeah! I should be able to, I don’t have anything-”

“Fred?” 

Someone else knocks on his back, softer this time. He turns to see that Velma’s finally put all her notes away and made her way to the door. She’s looking up at him with a sort of twisted-up expression that he knows is nerves. She glances at the other boys and shifts into a scowl before looking back. “I confirmed a possible case to check out. Come with me to find the others?” she asks intently. He wonders if that’s what was on her phone. 

“Cool it Dinkley, we’re still talking,” Billy says sharply, before getting elbowed in the gut by Red, who hisses something under his breath. Velma doesn’t spare them a second glance, still focusing on Fred. He’s not sure what she found that made her so serious so fast, but it’s… concerning. 

He rubs his neck awkwardly, unsure what to say. “Can it wait? I haven’t gone to practice in ages, and we said we’d stay out of big mysteries,” he settles on.

She responds with a halfhearted shrug. “It put people in the hospital, so it can’t wait long. Catch up when you’re done?” she says bluntly before looking over at the other two. “You didn’t hear any of that.”

She turns and walks away, leaving the three of them standing awkwardly by the door. Billy looks mad, but Red just sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“Better you than us, man,” he says lazily. “She’s scarier’n a monster sometimes. So, you gonna go be a detective instead’a wrestling?”

Fred shrugs. He’s not sure why he’s asking, they know as much as he does. “I don’t know. I’ll see what she found out, maybe I can come by for an hour.” 

Billy snorts. “Yeah right. Look, if you don’t want to wrestle, just say it.” 

“I do want to wrestle!” Fred exclaims, because of course he does! It’s his favorite sport, even though he doesn’t do it competitively. Meets just take up too much possible investigating time. “I’ll come to practice soon, promise!” 

“You better, man,” Red says, giving him a friendly punch in the arm. “You still owe us a good sesh after bailing _last time_. You can’t get out of yer dues forever.” 

“Hey, you trying to scare me away?” Fred punches back and they snicker. “I’ve fought ghosts and monsters, you’ve gotta try harder than _that._ ”

“Alright alright tough guy,” Red grins, stepping back. “We get it. Go see what your girl wants.” Fred starts to protest, but they both slap him on the back and push him down the hall. 

He decides finding Velma is a more pressing concern and heads away into the crowd.

* * *

“Hey, you three!”

Shaggy leans around his locker door as a shout sounds above the chatter of the hall. He and Daphne can see Velma striding up with purpose, holding her phone to her chest. Behind her, Fred’s just visible pushing through the crowd towards them. “Like hey yourself, Velms. What’s up?” 

As she reaches them she gives a wry smile. “I found something interesting. Surprise. Have you noticed that Jason and Brittany are out again today?”

“Of course,” Daphne says with mock indignation, as if offended that she even asked. Everyone knows she keeps close track of the school’s rumor mill. She pauses and blinks, then looks at Velma with a frown. “You don’t gossip. What have you got on them?”

“Currently, just a hunch. Read this first and tell me what you think.” She directs that to Fred as well, who just reached them, and holds out her phone. Shaggy accepts it and, while Velma starts scratching Scooby behind the ears, starts to read with Fred and Daphne looking over his shoulder. 

Right away he recognizes it as a transcript ripped from her old police radio. It feeds into her computer and generates copies automatically, which is _so_ much easier than when they had to do it manually. Its grammar isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough.

They’re not sure if it’s all legal, though, so they haven’t told anyone about it. Just in case. 

_ >> _

_//Hey Sheriff this is Johnson we been out here near half an hour and nothins changed can we pack it in_

_//That’s a negativo just hold out til the ambulance shows_

_//You sure bout that I ain’t scared or nothin but the rains coming thicker than grandma’s special turkey gravy an I reckon it ain’t letting up till daybreak_

_//Now listen here Johnson if you want to come running back here every time you’re on duty I can get you a nice comfy desk to watch instead of keepin an eye on them folks you are watchin em right_

_//Sure are they ain’t answerin to nothin maybe you’ll get somethin outa them after the docs get their turn_

_ >> _

_// I tell you I ain’t seen nothin like this the car looks like it came out second in a state derby you ever seen a wreck like that_

_ >> _

Daphne whistles as he scrolls further. “Oh wow, were they in a car crash? That makes more sense than ‘they ran off and eloped’. Veronica was _way_ off.” 

Shaggy laughs as Velma snorts despite herself. “That’s what I thought at first,” she starts, then pauses. “Not them eloping. I thought it was a crash too, but some things don’t add up.” 

Daphne gestures for her to continue without looking up. Velma nods and continues in her ‘professional’ voice. 

“The crash was reported by a third party - a tow truck driver. He states he got a call Sunday night, but something happened on the other end and it cut off halfway through. When the officers arrived, they found the victims hiding in the car like Scooby during horror movie night.”

Scooby huffs indignantly and tries to stand up, but she switches to rubbing his belly and he flops back down with a whine. “They had to be physically removed from the car and taken to the hospital, and apparently they’ve been there since Saturday night. I think that alone makes it worth investigating.”

Fred rests his chin on Shaggy's shoulder and hums thoughtfully. “If the crash was really that bad, a few days at the hospital isn’t weird,” he points out, and Shaggy has to admit that out of all of them, Fred knows the most about injuries. “Maybe it really was just an accident.”

Velma, however, shakes her head with a frown. “I don’t think it’s that simple. They managed to call a tow truck _before_ going unresponsive. That suggests the shock symptoms, or whatever they actually are, were triggered by something else. But if you think it’s not worth investigating...” She lets her sentence trail away pointedly. Fred crosses his arms with a frown, but Daphne cuts any further argument short by grabbing the phone and tossing it back to Velma. 

“Your point is understood. There is certainly something strange afoot.” Scooby perks up at that and Shaggy can practically _feel_ her vocal gears shifting. “Perhaps we ought to make an anonymous call to the Sheriff, alerting him of our concerns? After all, it is our duty as law-abiding citizens to assist the police however we are able.” 

They all stare at her incredulously and, kudos to her, she holds a serious face for a solid six seconds before it cracks into a smirk. “Or, we can do what we do best and fuck up some creep’s night.”

Velma laughs and grins wide. “I knew I could count on you,” she says, satisfied. They both turn to face the boys with matching, predatory smiles, and it’s kind of like being cornered by wild animals. Shaggy silently thanks Fred for stepping up, hands out in concession. 

“Okay, we’ll go take a look.” He frowns as they exchange high fives. _“Just_ a look,” he amends quickly. “We’re supposed to be staying _out_ of trouble, remember?”

Their expressions make it clear how _not_ on board they still are with that, but before they can say anything, the school bell rings. Shaggy looks around and, oops, the hallway’s empty. They were so deep in conversation that all _five_ of them forgot it was still school hours. They exchange panicked glances before bolting in separate directions. 

“Meet at the Van later!” Velma shouts before she disappears, dragging Daphne down a stairwell. Fred’s already rounded the corner with surprising speed, spurred by the panic of tardiness, and Scooby follows Shaggy towards the gym at a jog. 

“Like, taking it easy was nice while it lasted,” Shaggy comments as they hurry into the locker room. Scooby snickers.

“Rheah! Rhee whole rays. Rhat’s a record!” He spins their lock and grabs a change of clothes as Shaggy pulls off his shirt. “Rhink it’s really a rhonster?” he asks through a mouthful of fabric.

“I dunno, man,” Shaggy sighs, accepting a slightly slobbery shirt. “It sounded pretty normal but like, we don’t have a good record, you know?” 

Scooby nods solemnly, then stands up and licks Shaggy on the cheek. “Rhe’re still ralive rho,” he points out, “rand all re’ve rhot is some rhool rhars!”

He poses, showing off his scarred leg, and it’s just morbid enough to make Shaggy laugh. 

* * *

Velma’s the first to arrive at the Mystery Machine after school. She could get in and start it, she has a key, but the weekend storm’s blown over into sunny skies so she takes her favored spot on the roof instead. She pulls out her laptop and waits, idly browsing the news as she watches students gather outside. 

Fred shows up first, accompanied by some wrestling friends, who still seem to be asking him to attend practice instead. She frowns a little as she watches them exchange words, as Fred shuffles awkwardly and the others make wide gestures. She doesn’t like them, for way more valid reasons than with most people, but there’s nothing she can do with that.

Eventually they back down and walk off; coldly, she thinks, which is less surprising than she wishes it was, but bless his heart Fred doesn’t seem to notice. He looks around, finding her over the heads of the crowd and waving, and she waves back as he starts walking over. 

“Hey,” she says as he squeezes between the cars next to her. “You meatheads done being big dumb meatheads? Kidding!” she adds because he looks a little offended by that, and even she can’t tease Fred for too long. It’s like pretending to throw a dog toy, eventually it just gets sad. “It’s good to have our trapper on board. What’d you decide with practice?” 

“It’s fine, I’ll go later this week,” he smiles. “They’re really looking forward to it, they really miss having me around.”

She accepts that without comment. Fred leans against the van’s shaded side, arms up behind his head and one leg up, like he’s the cool bad boy in a 90’s teen flick. It so doesn’t work with his white polo and nice shoes and well-groomed hair, and if he didn’t do this all the time she’d probably laugh at the absurd contrast. She still smiles to herself as she goes back to her watch.

A few minutes later she spots Shaggy and Scooby, carrying something large wrapped in cloth between them. It’s a good thing they cleared the van to take the Rat King away, because it totally wouldn’t fit if they still had their usual equipment. It’s probably going to be tight anyways.

She reaches down to rap on the side, above Fred’s head. “I bet they need a hand.” She gestures towards the duo. “Can you help them load… whatever that is?” 

Fred looks over at them, then glances up at her with a grin. “Oh I see,” he says mock-seriously, “the queen sends her subjects to do her bidding, safe upon her throne of steel. Woe to us, we meager servants of higher powers, for we know not what freedom we are denied!” 

Velma bites her sleeve to hide her laughter as he starts getting into it, gesturing theatrically to match his monologue. 

“Yes, and in ignorance I remain, for it so pleases the queen, and I e’erbound to her whims. What misery, what agony! Curse the Morai, the fates; their apathy, oh, such cruel injustice! Alas, poor Frederick, I knew him!”

He stops, halfway into the classic Yorick pose with his phone on selfie mode in place of a skull, as she lets out a snort that immediately turns into a rough cough. Joining theatre was the best thing to happen to Fred and the worst thing for the rest of them. She’s always known he loved theatrics, but the theatre kids are _enablers._

She lifts her glasses and rubs tears from her eyes so she can see him clearly. He’s got a big dumb smile on his face, he’s so proud of himself. She tries to say something but she can’t even look at him, posing dramatically, without laughing again, so she leans back and looks at Shaggy and Scooby instead. 

“Okay, okay, seriously, they could use a hand,” she gasps out, watching them carefully maneuver around a particularly energetic crowd. “As queen, I demand that you provide aid to your fellow subjects. Now get thee gone!”

Fred gives her a deep bow and turns smartly, just slow enough for her to see him laughing, the dork. She takes a moment to steady her breathing, coughing a little more as she digs through her bag for a water bottle. Once she’s taken a sip and finished hacking up her damn lungs, she leans back on her hands and goes back to scanning the crowd. 

_Weird_ , she thinks. _Daphne doesn’t have anything after class on Tuesdays. She should’ve beat Shaggy and Scooby out if they had to go back for_ that _thing. She didn’t text us, either, and she’s_ always _texting. So where_ is _she…_

“Boo!”

Something jabs her in the square of the back. Velma does _not_ shriek, definitely, as she twists around in surprise to see Daphne laying on the roof, chin in one hand and a survival knife held by the blade in the other, grinning like a fox in a henhouse. 

“Don’t _do_ that!” Velma wheezes as she cackles. “I didn’t even _hear_ you!” 

Daphne doesn’t answer, just grinning and rolling off the hood in a lithe, twisting motion that _really isn’t safe_ with a knife in her hand, but she hits the ground unharmed because of course she does. She looks up, casually flipping the knife and cocking her head, and Velma tries to fight down a rush of heat as her breathing evens out. 

“Gods, jinkies, Daph,” she finally manages in a steady voice. “How do you _do_ that? I was looking for you and everything!” 

Daphne gives her an incredulous stare. She catches the knife and deftly pockets it in a hidden section of her sweater, then shakes her arm to drop a _second_ knife from her sleeve into her palm. She flips that knife into the air and catches it blind, then twists it back into her sleeve so fast it looks like it vanished. 

“Fine, you’re a badass. I don’t even know why I asked,” Velma sighs, then glances back towards the boys. They’re carrying it faster, but as she looks she sees the object tip to the side for a moment. “If you’re done being a horrible tease, you can grab the keys and open the back.” 

“Oh I’m _never_ done being a tease,” Daphne winks, but she catches the keys when Velma drops them and obliges. “Hey!” she calls to the boys and waves. “Hurry up! We’ve got _monsters_ to find!” 

“Like, c’mon Daph, it’s really wobbly,” Shaggy shouts back as they carefully lift it over a car hood. A stray gust of wind underlines his words, flipping the cloth to reveal a large paper mache sculpture of a banana split. Very _him_. The cloth starts to fly down the lot but Scooby leaps off a hood and snags it before it can escape.

“Hey, you got it done!” Daphne shoves the doors open as they rush the last few yards to the van and Scooby follows, bounding nibley across the cars. “I thought you weren’t going to finish it this week?” she asks Shaggy as he carefully backs up onto the van and out of Velma’s sight. 

“Like, Mrs. Walsnier said I’ve gotta get better at finishing stuff,” Shaggy’s muffled voice replies as the sculpture inches in. “She thinks I won’t, like, get the final done in time if I don’t take this one home.”

“Wow. It’s like she expects everyone to function exactly the same,” Velma says wryly. Fred glances up at her, a glimmer of understanding in his face, and she rolls her eyes with a grimace. That, at least, is something they’re all on the same page with. 

“Yeah, like go figure.” She can _just_ hear Shaggy chuckling as the sculpture vanishes too. “She’s coming at it from, like, the other side, you know?” 

Velma grabs her laptop and carefully drops down the side instead of replying. There’s really nothing she needs to add, although there’s a lot she _wants_ to. She takes shotgun as they set the sculpture down and Shaggy climbs over the seats into the back row. Scooby and Daphne slide in next to him and the redhead tosses the keys back to Velma with a “Heads up!” that comes _just_ early enough not to mess up her catch. Fred comes in last, dodging Velma’s outstretched hand with ease and starting the van. 

“So where are we going?” He bumps her arm and looks over expectantly. Right, she never actually told him that. She opens a map on her laptop and spins it around to face the gang. 

“The call went out from Apsten Road somewhere so we’ll start there.” She runs a finger along the road to emphasize the path, then taps to zoom in on the outskirts. “Our archive doesn’t have any stories about the area so I don’t know what to expect. If we find a trail we’ll park and follow it, but our best chance is to look for damaged trees along the shoulder. Keep your eyes open. Shaggy, you’ve got your camera?”

Shaggy lifts his bag in confirmation. “Good. If there _is_ something out there, I want stuff for the archive. So don’t run off without pictures, okay?” 

She wags her finger at the boys in the back and smirks as they shift guiltily. “Rhant re get a rhandid rhot as rhe run away?” Scooby asks sheepishly. “Rhose are always rhopular.” 

“Only if you get some proper shots too. I see enough blurs already.” They laugh as she pointedly adjusts her glasses with a faux-stern expression. 

There’s a dull thump from beside her and she looks to see Fred examining the GPS with a frown. “You okay, Freddie?”

“Seatbelt,” he responds absently as he starts the van. Velma suspects he missed the entire exchange after the destination, if the off-kilter GPS is any sign. She really doesn’t know why he keeps it around, it’s dumber than a TI-81 and twice as tedious. Whatever. He’s entitled to his gadgets as much as she is to her potions. She buckles up without comment and the van rolls out.

* * *

The drive isn’t far, as cities go, but it takes a surprising amount of time for them to reach Apsten. Centuries of cultural exchange with some very esoteric neighbors has guided Coolsville’s metropolitan growth into an absolute labyrinth, and the afterschool traffic’s a real bitch today. Velma hasn’t seen it this bad since the last Hex Girls concert. 

Over forty minutes after leaving, they’re passing by Coolsville’s iconic welcome sign, a big, garish billboard last updated in the mid 60’s, when Daphne snaps her mirror shut and grabs at their shoulders in the front seats. “Hey, guys, is that a cop?” she asks, gesturing down the road. 

“What?” 

Velma leans forward to look. Daphne’s right - she can see flashing blue-and-red lights through the trees. “Slow down,” she says quickly, ignoring whatever Fred’s saying about safety. Thankfully, he overcompensates and brings them to a full stop by the wayside. She pulls her laptop open and quickly scans through her transcripts. “That’s strange. There wasn’t any chatter about this,” she mutters, half to herself. “Why are they out here? The car should’ve been towed yesterday _at least_ , so there has to be something else going on. Maybe there were tracks? But it was raining, they can’t have anything to follow after three days. Sweeping for evidence, maybe? It’s still weird that it’s been-”

“Babe.“ Daphne shaking her shoulder pulls her back from her thoughts. Velma has to force herself to refocus, and her vision realigns to see Daphne giving her a teasing smile. “Conspiracies later. Let’s see what’s going on first, you nerd.” 

Velma doesn’t stick her tongue out, because she’s a professional paranormal investigator, but she does resolve to change Daphne’s ringtone when she gets the chance. Daphne gives her another smirk before turning to the front and humming in thought. 

“Rhat rhould we roo?” Scooby asks uncertainly. Daphne glances at him, considering, then at Shaggy. Something in her expression _clicks_ and she nods. 

“Let’s keep going,” she says with confidence. “Whatever’s going on, it’s not illegal to drive down the road. If they stop us, let me talk to them. Shaggy, switch seats with Velma.” 

Fred frowns as she finishes, obviously not happy that she doesn’t have more to share, but he doesn’t argue as they get up and open the doors. Shaggy obviously trusts her; he’s known her longer than any of them and probably knows the whole plan already, and Scooby follows his lead. 

Personally Velma’s also all for it because, hey, it’s not like the Sheriff’s ever really _cared_ about legality when it comes to telling them off. He’ll jump at _any_ chance to yell at them, even if they’re not doing anything wrong, but Velma’s pretty sure Daphne could talk her way out of a holdup and look good doing it. The local officers should be pushovers. 

She’s confident of that right up until they round the bend to find a _pair_ of cop cars sitting to the side and no less than _three_ officers standing around. As Fred slows down out of caution, two of the men turn around and she recognizes the Sheriff’s familiar hat-and-moustache look. Suddenly she’s a lot more apprehensive of whatever Daphne’s planning. 

“Hold this,” the girl mutters as the officers approach, carefully dropping her phone in Velma’s lap in a way that hides it from the front window. Velma, in turn, is as surreptitious as possible as she turns it over to look at the screen. It’s open to the notes app.

_Distract. Observe information._

It’s still not much detail, but she’s worked with less. She turns the screen off and hums in affirmation before looking past the Sheriff at the road. Whatever’s by the side is worth three cops’ time, so she’s determined to get a look. 

They’re still obnoxious and she wishes the gang could do their work without problems from the monkeys in uniform, but at least the officers come up beside Fred’s window instead of blocking the whole windshield. Sometimes their bumbling has its perks. 

They come to a stop and Fred rolls down his window. “Hi there Sheriff,” he says brightly. “What’s going on?” 

“Well that depends,” the Sheriff responds in a clear, no-nonsense voice. “Thought you five were keeping your noses out of things. What brings you five so far out of town on a school night?” 

Pompous blowhard. Velma rolls her eyes as she subtly shifts around, trying for a better angle on the cars. _Dammit they’re still in the way,_ she huffs when she can’t find one. 

“We’re helping with Shaggy’s photography work!” Daphne chirps, leaning over the seat to look the Sheriff in the eyes. “We thought it’d be nice to look for shots of storm damage. Maybe if we’re lucky we’ll find something that got hit by lightning! Oooh, have you gentlemen seen anything we can use?”

Velma can’t resist glancing over at her tone. She’s got the sweetest, most innocent smile she’s ever seen, and there’s no _way_ the Sheriff is obtuse enough to believe her. Not after years of experience with Mystery Inc. Still, he doesn’t _immediately_ call her a liar, which is better than she expected. Instead he crosses his arms and scoffs.

“Oh, oh really? Let’s say I believe that. You all just _happened_ to come out here, where there just _happened_ to be a car crash, on the road that just _happened_ to pass right by it?” He looks past a nervous Fred to Shaggy and raises an eyebrow at his camera bag. “So tell me Rogers. How’s the photo business? Didn’t think you youngfolk knew how to work those things.” 

Velma feels Scooby bristling at his tone but, to his credit, Shaggy doesn’t flinch at the implied challenge. “Like hey, we’re full of surprises!” he says cheerfully. “And like, we’ve got to do college apps, you know? Dawn says they’re like, really tough on art majors and I’ve got to do my best. She even gave me this!” 

He holds his camera up and Velma’s not too proud to admit she’s a little jealous. He and Daphne play off each other’s cues without skipping a beat. They don’t do this often, but when it happens it’s _so_ obvious how long they’ve known each other, how much understanding and trust they have. And how much Velma doesn’t have that. 

“I still can’t believe she did that,” Daphne adds conversationally. “She had that thing for years, I always thought she’d give it to her kids or something.” 

“Like it _was_ five years ago,” Shaggy responds casually. “I guess giving it to any kid was good enough.”

“Shaggy Rogers!” Daphne exclaims. “Are you saying a _Blake_ was _settling_?”

“Like no way,” Shaggy responds. “It’s not settling if it’s bettering!”

She gasps. “Such bravado! Such a claim!” 

He says “Like you would not say the same!”

“Your words are bold!”

“So I’ve been told!”

“But are they worth dust or gold?”

“Okay **, enough**!” The Sheriff interrupts, waving a hand as if he can shove their exchange away. And they were just hitting their stride, too. “You five‘ve caused enough trouble this week, I don’t have time for this.” 

He’s annoyed, Velma can tell. He’s doing the whole ‘tough guy arms-crossed-scary-biceps’ thing and glaring hard enough to cut glass. It still doesn’t work on them. 

The other officer, a young guy she doesn’t recognize, shuffles his feet awkwardly. “C’mon, Sheriff, they’re just kids. Can’t we let them go and forget about it?” he says, glancing between the gang. She gives him a once over in return. He looks fresh from the academy, all tidy clothes and straight edges. Nothing notable. 

Scooby’s twitching his tail beside her Poor guy, he’s putting on a brave face but she knows he doesn't like sitting out when Shaggy’s in a confrontation. She pats his side gently in reassurance. The Sheriff can’t keep up a staring contest with Daphne. He can’t _prove_ they’re not just passing by, and they all know it. One of them will cave eventually and it sure as shit won’t be their girl. 

Finally the Sheriff breaks. “Well, it’s good to see you kids thinking of your futures,” he sighs, deflating. “But this is a serious police matter and you shouldn’t be here. You better turn ‘round now, or I’m gonna have to call your parents. _Again_.”

“You first,” Velma says before she can stop herself. Everyone turns to look at her and she hurriedly continues “Your cars are in the way. There’s not enough space to turn safely.” 

It’s impressive that she can hear him gritting his teeth from the back seat. And also concerning. That can’t be good for him. 

“Alright alright fine!” He throws his hands up in frustration and turns away. “Just go around, why not. We’re not here for your protection or anything, go right ahead. But don’t dilly dally around, you hear?” He’s shouting by now as he returns to his car. “I’ll still call your folks if I have to!”

“Thanks for understanding!” Scooby and Shaggy snicker as Fred waves happily and raises his window. He’s completely sincere about it, which probably pisses the Sheriff off even more, but that’s not their problem. The other officer gives them a commiserating glance before moving aside and gesturing them onward. 

“Okay gang, keep watch,” Fred reminds them as they start moving. “We shouldn’t come back until they’re done, so make this count!” 

Daphne and Scooby salute playfully and Velma chuckles. She’s so glad she has allies in her cause against the dumbass cops of Coolsville. 

Then the wreck comes into sight and her mood drops right down into her stomach, which angrily protests its involvement. 

It was a car, at some point in its life. Big and red and unremarkable, the kind she sees every day at school as parents come by for their kids. It might even _be_ one of those cars, actually, and that’s not a thought she wants to contemplate, ever. She has enough nightmares already.

The scene is mechanical carnage. Rows of jagged metal are peeling away from the roof, running in long gashes down the length of the car to join matching lines scarring the windshield. One shattered headlight dangles from the front by splitting wires. Shards of glass lie spilled across the ground and embedded in the tires, which are sliced clear through their width, and something tore the hood off and crumpled it to the side. Dents and scratches cover the entirety of its body in a grisly tapestry of violence.

The inside is untouched, which she can clearly see through the side doors since they’re resting on the ground where the EMTs must’ve cut them out. The lack of blood should probably mitigate some of the horror, but unfortunately that’s not how she thinks. All it tells her is that the attacker was strong enough to flay a car _and_ aware enough to control itself. 

She tears her eyes away from the ghastly wreck as they ease back into their lane. She got information, she can’t complain. Still.

“I _told_ you there was something weird about this,” she says softly as the police lights fade back into the trees.

Fred doesn’t look at her, but she knows from the tension in his body that he’s even less happy about it than she is. 

* * *

They don’t talk for a while after that. Daphne went back to checking her makeup like she lies to the police every day, which for all Scooby knows might’ve been true at one point. Her parents are… well. It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d had a _tutor_ for this. Shaggy has his camera out and pressed against the window, because even though it was a lie, Daphne made a good point about photo opportunities. Scooby’s helped with college applications and they’re _brutal._ He’s got to take any chance he can get. 

Velma’s put her headphones on and pulled up the original transcript audio. She’s listening to it intently as she watches the road pass by; wanting to make up for missing the cops, he bets. 

They spend almost fifteen minutes circling through a few back roads, looking for anything of interest. They can’t go back past the crash while the officers are around so for now their main source of clues is out of reach. 

“Fred, pull over.” Velma breaks the silence halfway down Norhen Rd., a cross-street with Apsten. Fred obliges and she opens her window, biting her lip as she scans the treeline. Scooby ducks under an arm to see her better. Her eyes are unfocused but intent, flitting across the woods for something only she can see. 

“Turn here,” she says, pointing to the side of the road. Scooby cranes his neck to look, but all he sees is trees. He’s not one to doubt Velma’s knowledge, but...

“Are you sure? There’s no road.” Fred says, conveniently echoing his thoughts. Velma huffs at them and puts her hand out, fingers curled into a circle. She reaches around the seat to put it over his eye like a telescope and gently pokes his cheek until he’s looking straight through the space. He stares for several seconds, during which Scooby can hear Daphne and Shaggy chuckling at the display, then brightens. 

“Oh! I see it now!” he exclaims cheerfully. “Thanks Vel.” 

She sits back down with satisfaction and they roll off the asphalt. Scooby knows he’s not the only one with doubts as they shudder across the stretch of dirt, but as their wheels crunch through the flora the van’s shaking evens out and they find themselves on a semi-clear path just on the other side of the tree line. Fred and Shaggy peer over the front as they slowly roll forwards and Scooby clambers onto his best friend’s lap so he can see too. 

That’s a cobblestone road. There’s a cobblestone road hidden in the woods. Scooby doesn’t know why there’s a cobblestone road hidden in the woods. He doesn’t _like_ that there’s a cobblestone road hidden in the woods. Roads hidden in the woods are not good things, especially when cobblestone isn’t a part of Coolsville’s architecture within three miles of here. 

“Oh jeepers,” Daphne breathes with entirely too much excitement and not enough concern. “Where did _this_ come from? I’ve never even heard of a trail out here, how‘d you know about it?”

Velma growls and _clacks_ her keyboard furiously. “Don’t flatter me, it was a lucky chance,” she says after a second. “ _No one_ knew about it. There’s no sign of it on official maps or hiking guides. There’s _nothing_ indicating it’s here.” 

Fred brakes and puts them in park before turning around to face the other four. “What do you guys think? This might not be related to the crash, but I don’t know if we should ignore it.” 

Velma hisses out a curse. “That’s a really good question,” she says, shutting her laptop with a huff. “It would be even better if it had an answer. I’ve got nothing.” 

Daphne nudges Scooby back a little and he leans out of her way as she pulls Velma into a hug. “If the trail leads somewhere, it can’t be far. This patch of woods isn’t _that_ big. I say we see where it goes.” She looks to the guys for agreement. 

Scooby glances at Shaggy uncertainly. It doesn’t _sound_ dangerous, but that really doesn’t mean anything around here. After hearing about Daphne’s driving test, he’s never going to assume anything’s safe, ever. Shaggy gives him a look that says he’s of the same mind, but then he sighs and half-smiles at Daphne. 

“We’re here anyways, so like why not?” he says in resignation. “At least Velma can fix her maps when we’re done.” 

Daphne cheers and awkwardly pumps the arm that’s not wrapped around Velma. The other girl doesn’t smile, which isn’t surprising, but her mouth twitches and Scooby knows she’s interested too. Fred nods. 

“Alright. Keep your eyes peeled, this path was hard to see. I don’t know what else might be hiding around here.” 

They creep down the path at a snail’s pace. Scooby does his part to watch for anything ‘jinky’, as the sheriff put it (and Velma hates), but he’s much better with smells than with sight. He’s also still better with sight than the humans, which is probably why - even with everyone alert - they’re _all_ surprised when they turn a bend to find an _entire chapel_ sitting in the middle of a wide clearing, complete with a rusty wrought iron fence and an honest-to-gods graveyard in the back. 

What.

“What the fuck.” 

That too.

“What the _fuck!?”_ Velma repeats, already unbuckled and halfway into the front seats. “Are you seeing this? That’s a whole church!” 

“I guess that’s like, worth putting on a map,” Shaggy says absently, bracing himself as she leans heavily on their shoulders. “Do you think we can get closer?” 

Fred doesn’t seem to notice her weight as he drums his fingers on the wheel. “I don’t think we _should_ . This is definitely worth investigating, but if it _is_ connected to the car crash I don’t want to risk the Mystery Machine”

“Sure, sure,” Velma ruffles his hair before pushing off and going to one of the cabinets in the back. She throws sets of heavy hazmat gloves at everyone except Scooby and shoves the door open before Fred can even turn the van off, which he hurries to do as Daphne follows her lead. 

They all pile out of the van and approach the fence on foot. The metal is rusted red in spots and crumbling and Scooby is _not_ going to touch it unprotected. That’s just asking for tetanus. There’s still enough intact metal to make out the design on the gates though; a large circle, split into six pieces like a pie, with three pairs of symbols centering each piece. He eyes it curiously as Fred and Velma force the gates open through screeching hinges. Something about it feels… not familiar, but like it could have been. 

He puts it out of his mind for now. 

The chapel is small, maybe twice the area of an old one-room schoolhouse. It's dark wood walls are overgrown with ivy and the roof is a skeleton of broken rafters, patchy tiling and fallen branches. He'd almost mistake it for an early townhouse if it wasn’t for the graveyard and the fact that the whole thing is apparently built to a hexagonal floor plan. Even in Coolsville those aren’t common design features, and he’s not surprised that Velma immediately heads for the front door. This place has to be a historian’s wet dream. 

“Okay gang,” Fred says, grabbing the back of Velma’s sweater as she passes. She glares up at him but he’s looking at the rest of them and doesn’t notice. “This is an unknown location possibly connected to a recent attack. You remember safety procedures, right?”

“Don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anything, don’t open anything.” Daphne pats his shoulder as she passes and kicks open the front. Fred sighs and lets Velma go. 

“That’s not it and you know it!” 

“It’s close enough!” she grins and follows Daphne in. Scooby chuckles at his beleaguered expression. 

“Rhont worry Reddie, re’ll stop rhem from rausing rouble.” He nuzzles Fred’s side reassuringly before following them in. Fred gives him a quick ear scratch as he goes. 

The girls are already digging through a pair of shelves lining the vestibule. Velma literally, since her side apparently lost a fight with a very large tree. She’s tossing pieces of wood into piles seemingly at random, though as he passes she holds one up and rubs her sleeve against it furiously. Dirt comes away in chunks until she reveals a piece of metal underneath and she nods, then places it to the side. 

He leaves them to it, with their fancy thumbs and all, and heads further in. The space opens up into the nave proper, just as dilapidated as the outside. He glances up curiously and - yep, there’s a huge hole in the middle of the ceiling. Blue sky shines through, but at least it doesn’t look like the rest will collapse on them. They’ve had that happen before. 

A whiff of something putrid catches his nose. He pauses halfway up the sanctuary steps and looks around, sniffing carefully. It’s _really_ gross, like rotten fruit and sulfur together, and if he wasn’t still recovering from the sewers he’d probably be sneezing like crazy. He still wants to plug his nose as he investigates. 

Extremely careful sniffing leads him through the pews and up into the back. The smell fills the whole section like stagnant water, thick and heavy, and he wants to _follow it_ but it’s too much. He can’t sniff out its exact source. Instead he has to resort to the tried and true method of wandering around and hoping. 

He’s on his third pass when the floor squeaks under his paw. He pauses, presses it a few times experimentally, and steps back as it gives a little. This patch of floor doesn’t look any different from the rest, but he feels around until he finds a latch. 

_Bingo._

He awkwardly hooks it on a toe and tugs. He can’t quite get the angle he wants, but it’s enough. The trapdoor opens slowly as centuries of overgrowth reluctantly give up their grip. He shifts his paws as soon as there’s room so he can push instead, leaning his weight against the wood as it creaks open. He can almost make out something past all the leaves- _”Roooah!!!”_

The last of the bindings give way without warning and the trapdoor suddenly flies open, sending him headfirst down the hole. _Ow._

His yelp ends in a breathless gasp as he lands **hard** on solid stone, hard enough to leave him wheezing. He’s vaguely grateful that he landed on his back instead of his neck, but mostly he’s just disoriented. He lays there for several seconds in a daze as everything slowly drifts back into focus. 

Once his head is firmly back in order he sucks in a breath and rolls to his feet. The stench isn’t any better down here, but at least it clears his head a little. It’s like really shitty smelling salts. He shakes his head and looks around. 

The trapdoor dropped him at the end of a long stone hallway. It’s dark most of the way down, with only a few dull torches and side doors to interrupt the smooth walls, but a _n important_ door at the end catches his eye. It’s tall, covered with _arcane symbols_ in a contrast to the other, plainer doors, and also unlike them it’s ajar. A light shines through the crack, br _igh_ t as the sunlight outside, and he _do_ es _n’t_ question how that works. It’s _not_ im _port_ ant. 

The light is warm. _Inviting_ . The other doors s _lip_ from his mind in exchange for curiosity, and he doesn’t _need to_ check them as he trots down the _passage_ . What _ever_ ’s behind the l _i_ ght is _more important than_ some moldy old junk. _He_ ’s _here_ for _inform_ ation, so he marches forward with his _head high._

This is a place of _know_ ledge. 

Th _i_ s is _w_ here _he_ _ne_ ed _s to_ be _._

* * *

“Ugh! It's so gross here!” Daphne complains loudly as she picks through an old shelf full of weird trinkets and writings, all rotten together into a squicky mess. “Do we _have_ to go through all of this?”

“You didn’t have a problem running around sewers,” Velma calls from across the aisle, crouched over a still-growing pile of debris.

“Of _course_ not, at least I was _dressed_ for that!” She pushes a few books aside, wincing as yet another one sloughs out of its binding in a moldy heap. “These gloves are _not_ sufficient for investigating biological material of this nature, and they’re _so_ not cute too.”

“They have the best hazmat rating I could find,” comes the reply, “so it’s either a fashion disaster or a medical one. Your choice.” 

Daphne pauses to consider that. She prides herself on her fashion, even in the middle of a mystery, but this place is _really gross_ and if she got tetanus or something she’d get stuck in ugly hospital clothes anyways. 

“Fine,” she sighs after almost twenty seconds of thought. “But I’m _so_ done with this. One of you can take over here, I’m going to look for something else.” 

She casts around for a more interesting target. The main room’s nearly empty, decimated over the centuries by a combination of weather and wildlife. Everyone’s already scattered to the most interesting parts of the front, so she wanders up the aisles towards the choir section. 

There’s an archway on each side behind the pulpit, but they’re overgrown with vines and spiderwebs and she'd really rather make Fred clear those first. The pulpit itself looks like sandstone, which is interesting and sticks out against the assorted organics like a beacon, so she hops up the few stairs to examine it. 

There’s something engraved in the front. She carefully scrubs at the dirt and tugs vines away until she identifies it as an extremely intricate, stylized version of the symbol from the gates. It’s pretty impressive work, even with the grime; she doesn’t know what they did to protect it, but under the caked-on dirt the lines are pristine. No chips or erosion at all. 

“They really like this thing,” she mutters, making a mental note to look through religious symbols with Velma later. Maybe they can find something in the old newspaper records… 

She circles behind the pulpit and rests her hands on the lectern there, looking out at the ruins. _Is it ruins? Ruins are usually bigger and older. What else do you call old abandoned places? Not wrecks, those are vehicles. Derelict? Derelict works._

She looks out at the _derelict_ in search of other markings. Now that she’s looking for it she sees the pie shape everywhere; at the ends of the aisles, on the tattered bannisters, in the broken stained-glass windows. That probably confirms it as the primary religious iconography the building was built around, which also explains the building’s weird-ass shape. 

She recognizes bits of the original building here and there too. The chandelier gave out long ago and currently sits in the aisles, but she can tell it was finely made for its time; a large brass wheel, appropriately six-spoked of course, and the patina renders the whole thing a rather lovely pale green. The inner walls have fared somewhat better than outside, with races of gold accent running along the baseboard and trim; a pleasant contrast to the dark wood. She pauses to appreciate the care that went into the whole design. 

The building must’ve been beautiful when it was new and full of life. She tries to envision it and finds the images coming quickly. A crowd of people in brown robes like the Lodge wears, pie symbols around their necks, bowed in prayer. A figure in her place at the pulpit, dressed in finer robes _of course_ , hands held aloft as he extols the glory of their gods. Songs of reverence, exalted speeches; it’s a vision not unlike some of her parents’ parties, especially after a few drinks. 

She lets an imaginary congregation wander through the pews around the gang. Hoods pulled low, hands folded, chanting rites straight from a bad historical drama. Maybe one carried an incense burner, those are always popular with weird fringe religious groups. She imagines them crowding around the other three in concerned groups because it’s hilarious to imagine some old fuddy-duddies reacting to the gang’s eccentri-

The other _three_. 

That thought takes a moment to land, but it does so with all the subtlety of a brick meeting a window. She snaps to attention in a rush, pushing her daydreams away and looking again; there’s Fred and Shaggy, there’s Velma with her pile of pieces. _There’s no Scooby._

“Hey guys? Where did Scooby go?” she calls out. The others look up in confusion, glancing around too, but her question’s ultimately met with shrugs. 

“Maybe he went back outside?” Fred suggests blankly. “I bet he’s sniffing around for clues. Do you need him for something?” 

Daphne frowns at the casual response. For such a high-strung group of teens (and she’s including herself in that) he’s surprisingly blasé about one being absent. 

“No, I’m just…”

_They don’t care. They won’t help if I can’t even do it myself._

“No. It’s fine,” she finishes. “Don’t worry about it.”

Fred nods and the three go back to their work. Daphne turns away from the main room with a sigh and wanders across the sanctuary towards where the organ sits, rotting. She’s tempted to play a few notes to see if anything still works inside but Velma would have her head for _playing an abandoned church organ_ without precautions. 

_She’d be right to._

Instead she tests the section of half-wall behind the organ carefully before lifting herself up into a balancing crouch on top. It’s still strong enough to hold her weight so she uses the new height to scan the room again. Scooby’s got to be around somewhere, he wouldn’t go far from Shaggy without telling him, so there’s got to be a sign of him-

 _There_. Over in the choir section there’s a trapdoor left open, so covered in plants that she’d have missed it if they hadn’t been pushed aside recently. She slips down and approaches in a crouch, keeping her eyes on the ground as she does. A set of prints is just discernible in the overgrowth and, of course, it leads straight up to the hole. 

She reaches it to see an elegant ladder leading down some ten, fifteen feet into the earth. Or, more like stone. Sandstone like the pulpit. It’s dark enough that she can barely see the floor, and from this angle she can’t tell what kind of space she’s looking at. It could be a dormitory, a raid shelter or a wine cellar and she’d have no idea. 

She hesitates, glancing back at the others and biting her lip. It’s pretty damn hypocritical to leave without saying something. 

_They’re busy. I shouldn’t bother them._

They split up all the time, it’s fine. She’ll just be a shout away. Speaking of...

“Scooby?” she calls, squinting into the darkness. There’s no answer, which is. Concerning. Memories of the sewer station flicker through her head and she quickly pulls off a glove to access her phone light. 

She checks her battery quickly before turning it on, and the dull white glow throws faint shadows against the now-visible stone walls of the corridor. She waits for her eyes to adjust, then waits again because something doesn’t look right -the light’s cone is strangely muted around the edges, like she’s seeing it through a dirty lens. She blinks and shakes her head, but no, when she looks back the tunnel’s still weirdly dark. 

She glances back at the others, wondering if she should make them back her up or just head down alone. Fred and Shaggy are struggling to move a large desk that’s almost indistinguishable from a moldy log and Velma’s sorting wood pieces like a puzzle. They all look lost in their work, so she forces her unease down and concentrates.

 _Look carefully_ , she tells herself. _Be quick, but don’t overlook anything_. 

She lowers the light to the floor and crouches down, examining for disturbances, and immediately notices a _lot_ of concerning things. 

The steps are smooth and unwarped, like they haven’t aged a day since it was sealed, and the only sign of time passing is the Scooby prints clearly outlined in the thick dust. He definitely came down here, then, and definitely didn’t come back out. The wood itself is dark, almost black, but she grew up learning how to spot discrepancies and can pick out the dark splotches trailing all the way down. Blood, probably, and enough of it to last the centuries. She tracks its path as she descends, and by the time she reaches the bottom she’s hoping for it to end so she can stop thinking about what could _make_ that much blood.

Thankfully the landing obliges. The dust there is equally thick, but underneath it she can see small scratches littering the stone floor. They’re clustered in irregular groups, all running almost parallel with the corridor, and although the dust itself is untouched, the cuts look almost _fresh_. Which should be physically impossible. 

“Scooby Doo, where are you?” she tries again as she passed her light over the walls. Her voice comes out strange, muffled, like she’s wearing earplugs, and the air is thick with that same clinging haze. On impulse she holds her breath as she steps further into the darkness, as if she can hold it at bay like cigar smoke at her family’s parties. 

_“Lovely,”_ she mutters as she leaves the small patch of light the door provides. “Maybe we can hold the next holiday party h **_ere-!!!”_ **

She chokes on her words as an overwhelming _pressure_ slams into her brain, like a migraine and a hangover tag-team. Her ears pop and her vision instantly blacks into phosphenes; the world vanishes into a spinning abyss of vertigo that almost makes her puke. Only her years of high society experience keep her from throwing up right on the floor, and it’s still a close thing. 

_Pathetic. Scared of the dark? Really? That’s all it takes to scare me off?_

Her inner thoughts boil against her brain. Every breath roars at her ears in a desperate bid to fill the silence and every glint of reflected phonelight snags her eyes like a flare. She staggers to the side, desperately grasping for something, _anything_ solid to ground her roiling mind. A cold sensation greets her, hard and grimy but unfailingly physical, and she half-slumps against the wall in relief. 

_Why am I down here? Scooby doesn’t need my help, he’s way tougher than me, I should just LEAVE-_

She squeezes her eyes shut at that, desperate to drown out the voices roaring in her head. They’re no strangers to supernatural compulsions, to creeps and chills and cruel intentions. They’ve seen everything from vampires to elementals to ghosts, and they’ve come out on top every time.

This is nothing like those, and she doesn’t know how to handle it. How can she fight her own _brain_?

 _Always so quick to fight,_ a voice filters up from her memories. _You have more at your disposal than force and violence._

A different voice. Domovoi’s voice. One she trusts. She focuses on that memory, of the time she was six years old and had shattered a mirror over her reflection. He’d held her as she screamed and bandaged her hands as she cried herself quiet, and then he’d helped change that reflection. How to make it one she’s proud of. 

_I’m such a spoiled brat, I can’t do anything without whining about_ **_-_ ** **NO** **_._ **

She knows her demons, and those thoughts are _not_ coming from her mind. Something else is at work, telling her ~~truths she doesn’t want to~~ _bullshit lies and slander._

 _Fuck_ that. It can say whatever it wants, but if there’s one thing she knows it’s how to be a stubborn bitch who doesn’t listen to anyone. 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and holds it for several seconds. “Pull yourself together,” she hisses as she exhales. “You are a _Blake_ . You are a _woman_ . You _do not yield.”_

With a massive effort she pushes herself back to her feet and raises her head, blinking the phantoms from her eyes. Self-affirmation seems to have done the trick; the vertigo fades back to a more generic migraine and her vision clears enough to see the hallway again.

To see what’s _happening_ in the hallway. 

The darkness in the air is moving. Gathering, collecting like a swarm of gnats, into a dense mass low to the ground, without even a whisper to betray its advance, and it _is_ advancing, purposeful of intent, down the hall like a predator rising from its rest, and in dumb horror her gaze follows its prowl towards the prey that has so captivated it. 

At the end of the hall, now bereft of haze, a doorway stands revealed. A slice of sunlight cuts through the murk from above, so bright on her eyes that it hurts, but she doesn’t look away. Deep investigative instincts are screaming that looking away means disaster, so she squares up and waits the agonizing seconds to adjust. 

She’s finally able to look without squinting in time to spot movement. A wave of horror washes through her as she recognizes _Scooby_ through the gap, standing totally still with his back to the hall. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t know what’s down here with them. If it pounces, _when_ it pounces, he won’t stand a chance. 

There’s really only one thing to do.

**“SCOOBY DOO!”**

_This_ time her voice sounds out clear, sharp and echoing against the stone, and Scooby jumps in shock at the broken silence. He twists around and they meet eyes, a moment of recognition across the threshold. _He heard me,_ she breathes in relief. 

Unfortunately, the _thing_ between them hears her as well. The black mass roils furiously, splitting and shredding and boiling in an inky maelstrom of violence, and then it slams back to solidity with a force its previous shape lacked and she can see its form clearly. 

It looks like a dog, if dogs were descended from an entry in the index of _Lusus Naturae._ Huge, tall enough to look her in the face at full height, and heavy with muscle, it’s maw open to reveal wicked fangs gleaming white against the inky fur. Blank white eyes glow bright enough to leave trails in the dusty air as it stares at her, stoic as a corpse _oh jeepers, why is_ that _the metaphor she comes up with that is NOT helping._

The beast throws back it’s head and lets out an unearthly howl; a preemptive dirge that resonates against her bones and sets her nerves alight. It’s a sound of fury and death, as tortuous as a banshee’s wail, but amplified a thousandfold as it echoes off the stone walls. Daphne staggers for the second time tonight, her recovering composure splintering under the audio assault. She has to _run,_ has to lure it away before it remembers Scooby, but the noise hurts and she can’t block it out and it’s _so much and so loud and there’s voices in it screaming at her again no no NO she is_ not _going to leave Scooby alone-_

 _“_ **Ooof** _!”_

Something heavy crashes into her stomach and knocks her over. She lashes out at it in instinctive terror, trying to hit something soft and drive it _off_ her. She’s briefly rewarded with a pitched _yip_ before she realizes that the thing she’s hitting is more brown than black. She also realizes that she’s not lying on the ground, and is in fact being dragged by her collar in a very slobbery mouth. 

“Scooby?” she gasps out, wincing at how ragged her throat feels. He glances at her, stark terror on his face, and then sunlight blinds her again as he scrambles up the ladder into the church. Without dropping her, somehow. _He’s really good at this._

Muffled shouts pierce the cottony haze in her ears, which cues her in that her hearing’s probably fucking compromised. Scooby barks out something indistinct without slowing down. He flips Daphne around onto his back as he charges down the aisles and out the doors and, half deaf and blind, she can’t do anything but trust him. She wraps her arms around his chest and buries her face between his shoulders, and hopes for the best as they scatter into the woods. 


	4. The Hound of Coolsville, part 2

_Branches whipping his sides, stinging as he passes but too thin, too weak to hold him back. Blurs of green and brown flickering by, too fast to see, and he won’t be caught if he keeps going, keeps running._

(scooby)

 _Phantoms call to him, taunting, trying to lure him back but he keeps running. He doesn’t stop,_ can’t _stop, not until he’s away from the monster in the dark._

_(Scooby)_

_It’s not enough. He’s not fast enough, something’s still behind him and he can’t lose it, can’t shake it off. He hurts, a bittercold burning under Cutler’s blade-scar, the memory of bloody metal raw in his senses and choking his lungs with caustic terror-_

**_“SCOOBY_ ** _!”_

The shout breaks through his fragmented thoughts. He snaps to awareness and processes exactly what he’s doing, which is racing madly through the woods. Unfortunately, the mental shift distracts him at _just_ the wrong moment and a paw catches on an exposed root, sending him tumbling head-over heels into the dirt. He hits the ground hard and rolls through bushes and leaves before coming to a stop upside down against a tree. 

The impact knocks his head on straight and the last few minutes flash back through his mind. _Right_ . The car wreck. The church. The... basement? Ok not that part, there’s a chunk of memory missing but he _mostly_ knows what’s going on. 

His heart pounds in his ears as he looks around, trying to fill in the gaps. He remembers… something startling him and sending him running. Was it a monster? No, no he saw something else first. The only others around were… 

That’s right, Daphne came down to find him. And he grabbed her as he ran out, so -

_Daphne!_

He spots her lying on the ground in front of him, with twigs through her hair and large tears in her clothes. Her limbs are covered in small scrapes and smeared with blood, dirt, and what looks like blueberries? That’s unexpected. And not important; she’s hurt and he’s here, food can wait. 

He scrambles to his feet and bounds over to check her for other injuries. Nothing seems to be seriously wrong, nothing visibly broken, but he’s not a medical expert. Internal injuries are always a concern and, although they’ve been lucky so far, their luck _will_ run out some day. 

He gently nuzzles her cheek, which results in a groan and a sluggish bap on the nose. That’s encouraging, so he switches to pawing at her arm and finishes with a solid jab to her shoulder. 

That does the trick - Daphne lets out an emphatic “FUCK!” and flops over onto her side to glare up at him. 

“Have some respect for the dead,” she groans, sounding _almost_ serious, but there’s a hint of a smirk on her lips and he laughs in relief. She’s well enough to joke at least. 

She pushes herself up on shaky arms, visibly wincing as she does. Scooby quickly ducks under her chest and helps her to her feet. He whines into her stomach in concern. 

“I’m ok, Scooby,” she says reassuringly. “It’s just a few scratches. _Ow-_ “ She hisses and leans heavily on him. “Okay, it’s a lot of scratches. I’ll be fine!” she insists as he looks up at her. “You know I’m tougher than that.” 

She sounds so convincing despite all the blood streaks. He keeps supporting her anyways as she huffs and pats herself down, like that’ll fix her clothes. She pulls out her phone and laughs awkwardly. 

“Oh good, it’s not broken. Let’s see how the others are doing.” 

She goes silent as she taps through her phone. Scooby tries to compose himself while he waits. It’s not easy - without something to distract him, his thoughts start to slip back into a chaotic mess. He shakes his head to clear it and presses closer to her side with a whine.

* * *

Daphne tries to ignore how her hand’s shaking as she swipes through her phone. She hopes the other three are together, or else they’ll have to run all over the forest to regroup. If no one stopped Shaggy, he’s _gone._

She sends a message to the others and watches impatiently for a response. If anyone checks in, they’ll all know. 

**Emergency S.O.S Chat**

**_alpha BItch_ ** _: r u guys ok??? Scoom n I r togethr hbu_

_(...)_

...delivered but not read. Great _._

She sighs and sets it aside. Their emergency chat is useful enough, since ringtones are very very _very_ likely to go off right in the middle of sneaky plans, but she’d really prefer to call them directly. She can’t, though. Not until everyone’s checked in. So she has to wait for _them_ to tell _her_ the things she wants to know, when she could be _finding them_ and keeping them _safe_ . Velma could be researching the monster and Fred would come up with a plan to catch it and Shaggy, dear Shaggy would know just how to rally their spirits but _nooo_ , she’s stuck out here with _no_ way to help them.

“Raphne? Are you rokay?” 

“Hm?”

She glances curiously at Scooby. She _just said_ she’s fine, they’ve all had scratches before and these aren’t even supernatural! She starts to tell him so, but before she can get a word out he presses his face into her side. 

“Rit was really rarry,” he mumbles through her sweater. “Ri didn’t row what was rappening. Rit was so rark and I ridn’t row if I rhot out with rou and rit was rike Cutler ragain and I rust _ran.”_

_Oh._

She gingerly kneels down and wraps both arms around his neck. “It’s okay, Scooby,” she says softly. It’s not even difficult to control her panic now, because dammit her friend needs her. “We’re both ok. I’m sure the others are too. We’ll find them soon and we’ll figure out what to do.” She puts her full conviction behind her words, hoping it’s enough. Scooby sniffles and nods his head. 

“Reah…” 

She pats her pockets for Scooby Snacks but just finds a bunch of pieces in wrappers, which she opens and offers him anyways. He gives her a wobbly smile and starts licking them out of her palm. 

Something on her phone screen lights up, forcing her to awkwardly stretch for it without dropping the snacks. There’s a notification bubble over her messages and she taps it hard as soon as it’s in hand. 

**_blindInvestigator_ ** _: We’re here. I’m with the boys, we got out safe._

“They’re all okay,” she tells him, relieved. “Velma says they all got out too. Let’s call and get everyone up to speed, ok?” 

“Rhust a rinute,” Scooby mumbles around a mouthful. She watches him chew, noting how his tail twitches out of sync with his body and his limbs are still tensed with unease. 

“Ok. I’ll talk to her until you’re done,” she says gently. He harrumphs in acknowledgement and she presses a kiss to his forehead before turning back to her phone. 

**_alpha BItch_ ** _: k. wtf happened!!!_

* * *

 **_blindInvestigator_ ** : _I should be asking you! What the fuck did you do??_

_(...)_

Velma glares at the _user typing_ notice. Honestly, what does Daphne expect her to say? She’s not the one who found a damn _nightmare beast_ in the basement. 

She looks over to where she set the boys down. Shaggy’s sitting with his knees held close, staring at the ground and shaking slightly. Fred has one arm pressed against his back in an awkward half-hug and is humming a quiet song.

They both look like the definition of shell-shocked, and frankly she’s not surprised. If they weren’t all young and healthy, the beast’s howl would’ve given them heart attacks. She’s heard _banshees_ that’re less horrifying. 

She has the unsettling suspicion that _she’s_ only composed because she didn’t get a good look at the thing. She’d had Shaggy in her arms and was running to grab Fred before it’d even reached the main room, and aside from spotting Daphne and Scooby coming up a trapdoor she hadn’t paid attention to anything else. All she remembers is a storm of black smoke surrounding empty white _eyes and long, vicious claws that tore into the ground like a wolf tears its prey apart-_

She shudders despite herself. Ok, maybe _composed_ is a lie, but she’s still doing better than they are so she’s gotta be the responsible one. In this case that means handling emergency communications. 

“Daphne says she and Scooby are together and okay,” she tells the boys quietly. They look up at her; at least, Fred looks at her. Shaggy’s eyes are still a little unfocused. “We can call them and figure out what to do.”

Fred glances at Shaggy before replying. “Can we do that in a moment? I need to catch my breath.” 

It’s still amazing he was able to develop enough subtlety to avoid embarrassing Shaggy when he gets like this. She nods at the excuse and returns to her phone, where she spots a new notification. 

**_alpha BItch_ ** _: I duno we find a trapdoor and I went down_

 **_alpha BItch_ ** _: Was all darnk and stuf n I coudlnt see scooby_

 **_alpha BItch_ ** _: i duno why I went down alone. Didn’t think tot get you._

 **_alpha BItch_ ** _: but threre something weird down there. Like really weird._

‘Something weird’? That’s not what she expected, unlike Daphne’s terrible texting. Just happening across a monster in a basement wouldn’t qualify as _weird_ for them, that’s just a normal Tuesday. 

**_blindInvestigator_ ** _: Weird how?_

_**alpha BItch:** can’t explain. Bunch a bad brain stuf hpnd. Is all fuzzy n spots _

_**alpha BItch:** Like wheneyou presin your eyes and get a bunch go spots but all I my brain. _

_**alpha BItch:** yknow? _

**_blindInvestigator_ ** _: How could I not..._

 **_blindInvestigator_ ** _: Are you two safe for a call?_

 **_alpha BItch_ ** _: yea_

 **_blindInvestigator_ ** _: Ok. Stand by._

_**alpha BItch** : roger roger_

“Hey. I’m calling Daphne now. Scoot over.” She nudges Shaggy with her foot and he obliges with a faint smile. He looks a little better, which is good. He’s always rallied fast. 

She sits down to lean her head on his shoulder and drops the phone into his lap before hitting _call._ “Alright, let’s figure this shit out.” 

She’s pleased to see them both smile as they lean in close. 

Daphne answers on the second ring. _“Hey girl, y’all still alive?”_ she leads with her usual impropriety. Velma sighs heavily as Shaggy lets out a startled laugh. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replies dryly. “We’re even unharmed, too. What’s your status?” 

“We got out fine!” Daphne says easily. Scooby says something they can’t make out, although it sounds chastising, and she quickly amends herself. “Okay, I have some scratches. Scooby carried me out and we got caught on some branches. They’re not deep, though! I should just need some med-patches and I’ll be good.”

“Understood.” Velma does a quick mental count and grimaces. “I’ve only got three on me, you might have to wait until we’re out of trouble.”

 _“I’ll save them for the ones that won’t leave sexy scars, then,”_ Daphne says because of course she does. Velma rolls her eyes even though she can’t see it. She’ll know. 

“Alright. Now, report. What the _hell_ did you two find in the basement? We barely saw anything when we ran.” 

Daphne growls something furious. _“I don’t fucking know, I didn’t look too close! It was dark and crazy and it just looked like a bunch of smoke with big fucking teeth. Scooby, what about you?”_

_“Ri runno. Ri don’t remember reeing anything refore I went rown, and Ri rust saw roke when I reft. Ri rot nothing.”_

“I see.” Vema sighs, pulling her glasses off to rub at her eyes. Well, shit. That’s really not a lot to go on, which means they’ll have to go _back_ to the chapel for clues. She side-eyes Fred past Shaggy’s head and sees him staring off into the distance. He understands the situation too, if the calculating look in his eyes is any indication, and is already forming a plan. 

A plan made in ignorance won’t do any good so she straightens her glasses and pulls a pad of paper from her bag. “What else can you tell us? You said ‘something weird’ happened, can you describe what it was?”

* * *

Daphne looks over at Scooby. He shrugs at her and wags a paw. 

“Ri don’t know rat I can add,” he says quietly. “Ri don’t remember ranything. Rour rodeo rere.” 

“You don’t even remember finding the trapdoor?” Daphne asks, because that’s something she wonders about. She wouldn’t have found it in a _year_ on her own, how did he do it?

Scooby frowns and stares off to the side in thought. “...reah, rokay, I got rhat part,” he nods. “Ri’ll rhart.” 

He turns back to the phone and begins. “Ri relled romething really strange, rike rotten ruit and rhemicals. Ri rollowed rit to the roor, rut I don’t remember rhat rappened until Raphne called re.”

Daphne frowns at him. “I didn’t smell anything. I didn’t lose any memories, either. I wonder why it was different for you?”

Scooby shrugs again, looking as clueless as she feels. “Ri runno. Ri ron’t rell anything now, rho.”

Well, that’s… encouraging? It means the creature doesn’t come out this far, right?

Dammit this is _so_ not her field of expertise. 

_“Interesting. What else can you describe about the encounter?”_ Velma says, interrupting any follow-up she could have voiced. Daphne knows from her tone that she’s slipping into researcher mode - she’s gone sharp and snappish, which might be offensive to anyone else, but the gang knows she’s just intense like that. 

“I don’t know…” Daphne tries to estimate the timeline in her head. So Scooby smelled something strange and went below before she noticed him missing. She went down to find him but was held up by-

“The evil smoke!” 

_“The creature?”_

“No!, Well, yes, maybe. Not like when it was chasing us though.” She waves her hands irritably. “The basement was _really dark_ , like, campfire-in-a-cave dark. It was all smokey and shit, I couldn’t even see anything with my phone.” 

_“Is this the ‘_ something weird _’ you referenced in your text?”_ Velma asks dryly and Daphne smiles a little. She never passes up a chance to tease her about her texting habits. 

“No, that happened next. Nothing seemed wrong at first so I went in, but when I got further my head got _super_ fucked up. It was…” 

Her voice trails off as the memory of _don’t care dont bother pathetic spoiled ~~failure~~ _ those _fucking_ thoughts boils up again. But _no_ , they’re distant now, she’s not being forced into them and she can deal with it.

She takes a breath and holds it for a four-count before letting it out evenly. _I know my_ _demons_ , she recites, and carefully grabs her train of thought again. 

“I think... it was forcing intrusive thoughts on me,” she finally says after several seconds of scrutiny, and there’s a hiss from one of the boys. She thinks it was Shaggy. “Or maybe making mine worse, I can’t tell. Either way, they were _loud._ They almost knocked me out at first.” 

_“Seriously!?”_ Fred exclaims in concern. _“What kind of thing can do_ that _!?”_

 _“Like, are you okay?”_ Shaggy adds. She laughs, and it even comes out steady. 

“Not really, but that’s not important right now.” Scooby shoots her another glare and she shrugs. Well, it’s _not._ “I think it was the creature causing it. It was only _bad_ while I was all the way into it’s smoke-body.” 

_“Can you explain the events in more detail?”_

She would, actually, but Velma’s right to ask. She shifts herself into a sitting position and puts her chin in her hands, considering. How can she describe it… 

“The smoke was everywhere at first,” she starts. “I couldn’t see more than twenty feet down the hall so I tried to move deeper, but as soon as I stepped out from the sunlight I was hit by extreme vertigo, nausea and hypersensitivity. I also experienced aggressive negative thoughts that did _not_ originate from my own mind.” 

The words come easier as she lets herself switch to a more clinical headspace, a skill Daisy taught her during her residency. 

“I kept some self-awareness but the invasive thoughts took extensive effort to block. I don’t know if I successfully threw off the effect or if the creature lessened its attempts, but when I was able to see clearly again I observed the smoke… _condensing,_ into a dense form. Quadrupedal, and it moved like a predator animal.” 

She glances at Scooby as a spark of thought flickers from the memory. “It was a little wolfish, actually. I don’t know if that matters.” 

Velma gives an absent grunt, probably too distracted writing to comment. Daphne gives her a moment to catch up before continuing. “I think the effects are related to its form. I called for Scooby a few times - oh, he was just standing in a room at the end like he was hypnotized - but he only reacted when it was almost solid. It got the thing’s attention as well, and. Well. You all heard it.”

Scooby gives a low growl to emphasize the point. She slaps him lightly on the shoulder and he chuckles as he thumps against her side. 

_“Anything else?”_ Fred takes over after a couple seconds of silence. Daphne sighs and leans on Scooby, letting her headspace shift back to normal. For as much shit as they give the Sheriff, she wouldn’t want his job. She has to be ‘respectable’ and ‘composed’ for too many family events already. 

“I don’t think so,” she says heavily. If there’s anything else in those memories they can use, she doesn’t want to look for it. Velma makes a noise of acknowledgement and clicks her pen several times, undoubtedly rereading her notes. 

_“So. We have a quadrupedal, possibly canine entity made of an unknown, insubstantial material, capable of manifesting sufficient physical mass to rend an automobile apart. It also demonstrates mind-affecting properties that severely impair sensory processing_ and _cause, or possibly heighten, existing negative mental conditions.”_

_“Don’t forget about its howl.”_

_“_ Obviously _I didn’t forget about it’s howl, I have_ ears _. So accounting for the location and approximate age of the building, we can narrow down its possible origin...”_

Velma’s voice fades into a low mutter, running through lists of possibilities interspersed with the occasional suggestion from Fred. Daphne glances at Scoob and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. She loves them, even when they lose themselves in research. 

There’s a distorted rustling noise from the speakers and their voices get muffled as the other end is moved around. 

_“They’re like, gonna be a while,”_ Shaggy says quietly, with the same amusement she feels. _“They’ll tell me when they have something.”_

“Alright. Sorry you got stuck with the nerds,” she teases and he laughs. Like he would ever have a problem with that. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to Fred and Velma argue over theories. Daphne only catches every sixth word or so but it sounds like they’re making progress, if the occasional shouts of Latin are any indication. Nerds. 

They’re in the middle of an argument over ghosts versus poltergeists, apparently, when a yawn crackles through the phone, followed by a tired sigh. Daphne smiles. “Same,” she says wryly. “It’s been a day, huh.” 

_“Do you want to, like, talk about what happened?”_ Shaggy asks, and a rush of affection warms her chest. He always cares about everyone _so much_.

“You know all of it anyways,” she sighs, absently scratching Scooby behind the ears. “It wasn’t anything new, it just shouted about how I’m “spoiled” and “useless” and stuff. It wasn’t even dysphoric, it was just _loud.”_

“Raphne,” Scooby says sternly and halts her hand with a paw. “Rit’s still rimportant. Re can risten if rou reed.” 

She flicks his nose, making him let go and rub at it irritably. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry so much.” She smiles as he huffs. “I’m really fine,” she adds because she _really_ _is_. “It’s just been a busy day.” 

_“That’s like, the truth,”_ Shaggy laughs, then hums. _“What about you, Scooby Doo?”_

Scooby plops his head into her lap with a whine and twitches his ears invitingly. She goes back to scratching and he looks away so he can pretend he’s not smiling.

“Ri’m _not_ rokay!” he says indignantly into the phone. “Ri woke up to Raphne yelling rat re rand I ridn’t rhow what was going on rand rhere ras a scary ronster and rhen re were running rand row we’re all rheparated!” 

He rolls over so Daphne can scratch under his chin instead. “Ri rust want to ro home and rake rome rooby racks. Ris rhat too ruch to ask?” 

“Looks like it is today,” she murmurs, giving his collar a soft tug. He whines at her response and buries his face in his paws miserably. She hums in sympathy and absently wipes blood drops from her face. The scratches still sting but the bleeding’s slowed down a lot… 

“Hey, you don’t feel any side effects from whatever happened, do you?” she asks as it occurs to her. Scooby raises a paw to look at her in surprise and she continues, “I mean, we had _really_ different reactions to whatever-the-fuck it was. Did any of it stick around?” 

Scooby frowns at her question and looks to the side in thought. “Ri ron’t think so?” he says hesitantly. “Ruh… Ri ras ranicking rhen re were running away rut ri’m not now. Rit right’ve reen doing that? Ri reel rine now ro it’s not rhermanent.”

She looks him over as he answers, searching for any unusual marks. Besides some rough spots from running through the woods, he seems unharmed. Velma says that lots of magics leave physical signs so the lack of anything obvious is good. She really doubts a berserk dog ghost would be smart enough to hide anything from her _and_ Scooby. 

_“Like I hope you’re right, buddy,”_ Shaggy says nervously. Scooby and Daphne both nod in gloomy agreement.

**_“Eureka!”_ **

Fred’s shout interrupts their melancholy ruminations and startles a laugh out of all of them. _“I think they’re, like, done with their nerd stuff.”_ Shaggy says over the rustling as he moves back to the others. “Hey _Freddie_ , _what’s the plan?”_

 _“Well, gang, we’re going to have to split up,”_ Fred says excitedly and Daphne blinks in surprise because that’s definitely not something that warrants that kind of energy, they do that all the time. _“Scooby and Shaggy, you-“_

 _“Go in first as bait to like, keep it distracted?”_ Shaggy finishes for him with a nervous laugh. _“Like, we know how it goes, man.”_

_“Alright, good,”_ Fred continues steadily. _“Daphne, the three of us will go back underground to look for clues. There’s got to be something we can learn there.”_

Scooby frowns, clearly looking uncomfortable. “Ris rhat really rhe best rhan? Rut if it goes rack down while you’re rooking?” 

_“Don’t worry, you guys will do great!”_ Fred assures him. About the wrong concern. _“I’ve thought up the perfect plan, it’ll be fine!”_

* * *

“Y’know, maybe we could, like, think of something else?” Shaggy says nervously as they peer through the woods towards the chapel. The beast is occasionally visible through the windows, flitting around with unnatural speed and grace for its size. It doesn’t seem to see them, not that that makes him feel any better. “We’ve got to, like, have a better way in.” 

“Not if it’s still inside,” Velma answers from a few trees up. “If that thing hadn’t gone for Scooby and Daphne, we’d never have outrun it. We _need_ to distract it if we want to solve this.” 

She aims her phone into the trees across the path and flickers its light twice. After a moment there’s an answering flicker from a dense thicket. Shaggy examines the foliage carefully, but he can’t make out any sign of Daphne or Scooby. They’ve really hidden themselves well.

Hopefully the beast can’t see them either. 

“She says they’re ready,” Velma adds. “Whenever you’re good, we can get this started.”

Shaggy swallows his fear and nods, then realizes that she can’t see him and speaks up. “L-like, sure, I’m totally ready.” He reaches down and stretches slowly, trying to get a last-minute warmup before running for his life. It’s a luxury he doesn’t often have. 

Once he’s satisfied, relatively, he carefully moves through the foliage until there’s only a few trees keeping him hidden. Velma gives him a reassuring pat on the arm, Fred shoots him a thumbs up and he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and steps out onto the road. He’s not immediately attacked, to his relief, and a moment later Scooby pushes through a bush opposite him and carefully pads up, head tilted to keep the chapel in sight. 

“Rhay rhose to me,” he says quietly as he presses against Shaggy’s side. His weight is a familiar comfort and Shaggy rests a hand on his back in return. 

“You don’t gotta tell me, like, twice, Scoob.” 

They share a look of resigned dread before turning to face the building. The beast seems to have stopped moving around, either because it spotted them or because it went back underground. Neither option is encouraging. 

At an unspoken cue they both set off at a brisk pace, building from a walk to a trot and then to a jog as they get closer and closer to the derelict. As they step through the gates, Shaggy feels his hair standing up, shivers of fear prickling at his nerves, and after all the mysteries they’ve solved he knows the feeling; the subtle tension in the air just before a chase begins. It’s a kind of sixth sense that tells him they’re being watched and when there’s danger around. Velma says it’s an automatic sensory response to subconscious threat recognition, Daphne just calls it his ‘Shaggy sense’. 

Whatever it is, it means the beast _definitely_ spotted them coming up the drive. He watches the building carefully, waiting for it to act.

It’s not a long wait. The front door bursts violently off its hinges in a flurry of black-and-white movement and Shaggy’s moving before it hits the ground, Scooby keeping pace by his side as they sprint towards the Mystery Machine. It’s close to the building, too close to enter or start, but that’s not what he’s planning. 

In the same moment the beast opened the door, it would’ve had to adjust its perception from the impact. If they time it right, they can disappear from sight for _just_ long enough to confuse it and gain ground. They have his mom to thank for that lesson, and it works here as well as it always does. 

The beast’s head snaps towards them as they come out from behind the van but it’s not ready for it, it’s not in position. It loses seconds and they gain a lead. They turn the building’s corner as it leaps down the stairs, and then it’s out of sight.

Definitely not out of mind, though. Not when he can hear it hot on their tails. It’s snarling, not howling like before, but the change isn’t much better - a ragged, grating sound that reminds him of the time Scooby caught pneumonia. It sounds like Death’s own guard dog, and if he could spare the attention he might worry that it’s, like, diseased or something. 

Diseased ghost dogs. That’s a new one for their list of ‘worst mysteries ever’. 

“Raggy!” Scooby shouts and he stumbles and turns around to find Scooby climbing through a hole in the walls and wow, he didn’t see that at all. 

“Good find!” he pants as he vaults after him, clearing the edge easily _thank you track._ The hole opens up into a small stairwell and he doesn’t slow down as he follows Scooby up to the second floor. The stairs crack beneath his feet, loud and terrifying and he’s afraid he’ll break through with each footstep, but by some miracle they both reach the landing safely. 

“Like now what?” he gasps, frantically looking around for an exit route. The space is halfway to an attic, low walls rising to a peak with a belltower standing out in the center. There’s another stairway mirrored on the other side, probably their best bet, but he hopes there’s a less obvious path.

Scooby opens his mouth, panting, but before he can reply a loud crash and a frenzy of barks makes them both jump. Shaggy risks a glance backwards to see that the stairs did _not_ , in fact, also manage to hold a furious hellbeast that doesn’t care about structural integrity. Half the steps are completely broken and he can see the beast thrashing around on the floor below. It throws pieces of wood away and stands, growling up at them in fury. 

“Ruh roh,” Scooby gulps and ducks back out of sight. He grabs Shaggy and tugs him away towards the belltower as the beast leaps at the upper staircase and gets _really close_. Yep. Time to go. 

He lets Scooby drag him up the tower and out onto the roof, aiming a kick at the bell’s fastenings as they pass. The aged wood snaps and the bell plummets down the stairwell, crashing through the steps with echoing _cla-clangs_ that make the whole building shake. He falls to his knees as the rooftop sways dangerously and almost sends him through a massive hole. 

“Ran you rhee it?” Scooby asks, frantically pacing the edges as he looks over towards the ground. Shaggy looks towards the ground too as he steps carefully around the hole in the roof. He doesn’t see the beast, but - he sees a flash of purple?

Wait that’s Daphne - _the others are still above ground? They need to get below_ **_now_ ** _, before it sees them and changes targets._ What’s the point of them being distractions if the gang gets into danger anyways?

_Chic-chikk. Chic-chikk._

A series of sharp clicking sounds crashes into his thoughts like a bucket of ice water. He turns slowly to face the belltower. Scooby’s frozen and watching it too, stark terror on his face. 

“Like, no way!” Even without the _stairs_ ? There’s _no way!_

There is, though. A huge paw reaches over the window frame, its claws digging deep into the wood, and _drags_ back under the weight of its body, cutting inch-long gashes before catching. A second paw joins it, but it doesn’t dig as deep, it holds the weight better, and then with a grace at odds with its size the beast surges through the window and lands heavily on the roof. 

It rises to its full height, eyes blazing white and furious and a thunderous growl building in its chest as it stalks across the roof. 

“Like, zoinks…”

* * *

“We’re clear!” Daphne hisses as she tugs the trapdoor down behind her. It creaks to a stop with only a few inches of sunlight peeking through and she jumps the last few rungs to the floor. “Let’s go!”

Velma nods, already several feet down the hall. Their report hadn’t mentioned the light coming from the _other_ end, which is a _really important thing_ to leave out, _Daphne._

She scans the corridor as the other two hurry to catch up. The stone walls and side doors aren’t nearly as interesting, so she marches straight past them without hesitation. The door at the end is larger, thicker than the side doors, she’s certain, and carved with a complex runic pattern that she can’t wait to examine when they’re safe. For now she ignores it and shoves the heavy wood as hard as she can, 

It moves smoothly, with barely a squeak, which is _wrong_ and immediately sets off alarm bells in her head. Nothing this old should work this well. 

“Eyes up,” she calls back to the others, and she wants to take it slow but they have to be daring. For Shaggy and Scooby. “There might be alarms in-”

She’s already one full step over the threshold before the room’s appearance actually registers and she stumbles on the second. “- _here.”_

“Uh, Vel? You okay?” Fred asks, but she barely notices because the room is _amazing._

It’s lit by the glow of a crystal hanging from the ceiling, as bright as the sun outside, and she thinks it might _actually be_ sunlight - it’s throwing refracted sunspots against the walls and she doesn’t know how it’s doing that but it’s _fascinating._ Mahogany shelves line a whole wall, filled with what seem to be a mad scientist’s entire laboratory. Leather-bound tomes and sealed scrolls and stacks of parchment; rows of bottles filled with polychromatic liquids she can’t even guess at; delicate instruments ranging from astrolabes to sextants to electroscopes; all spotless and pristine as though they’d only been sitting overnight. In fact, _everything’s_ been preserved perfectly, including the frankly ostentatious painting looming over the desk. It depicts a well-dressed man seated in a gaudy chair, one hand resting between the ears of-

“Oh _shit,_ that’s a big dog!”

Velma jumps as Daphne bounds past, pushing off her shoulder with energy. “Keep it down!” she hisses as she darts into the room on light feet. “Do you _want_ to bring it down here?” 

Daphne looks appropriately contrite and settles on the ground to approach the stacks of paper. Not that her exclamation was _wrong_ , though. A massive black borzoi looks out at them from the canvas and it would take deliberate ignorance not to connect it with the creature upstairs. 

“This is definitely the right place,” Fred says behind her, apparently having missed Daphne’s shout because _duh,_ obviously. She almost says that out loud but he’s looking back down the hall in concern, and she herself twitches as she hears a _thump_ and a series of faint cracks. 

Right. Not the time for teasing. 

“Split up and look for clues?” she asks, even though he was probably about to say the same thing. His quick nod confirms that as he, thankfully, doesn’t say anything either and heads over to help Daphne search.

Velma gives the shelf a long look, her excitement now tempered by the reality of the situation. Somewhere in here is the information they need. She just has to find it.

* * *

“Like, can’t this thing just take a break!?” Shaggy shouts as they charge across the ground floor. Scooby’s panting too much to respond, not that Shaggy expects him to. He’s really just venting his fear. 

After their frantic descent from the roof they’d tried making sharp turns through the ground floor halls to throw it off. He’d correctly assumed that it’s size kept it from turning sharp corners, but he’d _in_ correctly assumed that it would _care._ There’s at least four new holes in various walls and he’s starting to worry about its structural integrity. 

He turns a corner and catches sight of the nave at the end of the dilapidated hallway. Shaggy quickly glances around, considering their options, then decides on his next path. 

“Let’s get some, like, running room!” he calls back and gets a bark of agreement in return. He puts on a burst of speed, bounding over debris and shoving through vegetation with Scooby hot on his heels. They charge through the doorway and break for the front entrance without hesitation. 

He can see the Mystery Machine through a window and boy, does he wish they could just curl up inside with a plate of Scooby Snacks instead of being _chased by a murderous ghost wolf._ That would be a great way to spend the afternoon, nice and safe with everyone together. They don’t get many quiet days. 

_“woo_ **_ooaH_ ** _”_

Wait what. What was that.

He glances backwards, then does a double take when he sees _Daphne_ hanging off the thing’s neck. When did she get here!? Where’s the others, are they still below? Why’s everything turning sidewa- _oh_ “ _ZOINKS_!”

He crashes to the ground painfully, a sharp pain shooting up his foot from where it smashed through a rotting floorboard. It doesn’t feel broken, but it stings as he rolls over onto his back. Daphne’s pulled herself up onto its back, apparently, but she won’t stay on for long the way it’s flailing around. 

He pushes to his feet because yeah he’s scared, but that won’t stop him from helping. Also, Daphne’s got a knife out and no way will that end well-

 _-flash/blaze/flare scream shock/pain hit/heavy/fall/thrownbackhurtnoNO “_ **_DAPHNE_ ** _!”_

* * *

“Hey gang. Come look at this.” 

Daphne looks up from the papers she’s trying and failing to comprehend. Velma’s standing on the desk to examine the painting because she can’t reach it from the ground. She’s focusing on the dog, running a finger over its gorgeous leather collar with a frown. 

“This collar. Does it look weird to you?” she asks, and fuck if that doesn’t catch Daphne’s attention. She sets her stack aside and vaults over the desk for a better look. 

Velma’s question makes sense as she leans in. The painting’s details aren’t perfect, but she can tell that it’s not plain leather. It’s a flat band, not braided, and there’s definitely some kind of pattern to it. “I think it’s lettering. Maybe it’s a nametag?” 

Velma growls and taps a particular spot like it insulted her family. “Not from this era, they’re too new. Look at this - that’s a rune of some kind. I don’t recognize it but I bet it’s not a fashion statement.” 

“It certainly is _not,”_ Daphne says dismissively. “It _so_ doesn’t match the collar. I’d like to have words with whoever designed it, it’s a waste of perfectly good leather.” 

“If I knew the runes I could figure out what it did…” Velma muses instead of acknowledging her. “Daphne. Was it wearing a collar when you saw its canine form?” 

Daphne frowns. “I don’t remember seeing one, but maybe. You think it’s important?” 

“It might be. The creature is reminiscent of a church grim, but it demonstrates extremely atypical properties that we couldn’t determine an origin for. If there’s magic tied to the collar it _might_ have been responsible for-” 

Velma pauses as heavy footsteps thud across the ceiling. She looks up, tracking them as they move down past the doors and the hallway beyond, and Daphne sees her face twist in the same concern that’s been gnawing at her stomach all afternoon. She sort of wishes she’d argued against this plan more, for her boys’ sakes. 

Velma’s eyes snap back to Daphne and she shivers at the intensity behind the girl’s eyes. “Okay. Not important. Head back out, see if it still has a collar, and if so, _get it off_ ,” she orders firmly. “If it doesn’t and you get spotted, stay up there.” 

“Right.” 

Daphne snaps a firm salute before drawing a knife from her sleeve and darting out the doors without another word. _Finally_ , something she knows how to _do_. 

She halts at the base of the ladder to listen. Footsteps sound from the chapel, close enough to hear but not right above. Good. She scales the ladder one handed, keeping the knife ready as she pulls herself up onto the rotting floorboards and looks around. 

The doorways behind the pulpit have been cleared of debris, apparently by the highly effective method of _running straight through_ the wall of matter. She steps gently towards one and pauses out of sight - again, to listen for movement. She can _just_ hear creaking floorboards somewhere down the hall, but after a moment she can tell that they’re getting louder.

Perfect. She’s no Fred, she can’t improvise traps, but she’s damn good at ambushes. She backs up a half-step and crouches down in a ready stance, waiting. 

Scooby tears through the doorframe first, hollering like hell itself is… well, no - _with_ hell itself on his heels. Hell and Shaggy, following half a second behind. They don’t notice her as they flee, which is good because this is going to be hard enough without extra bodies involved. She breathes deep, braces herself, and lunges as the second source of noise reaches the door. 

_“Wooooah!”_

It’s _big._ She didn’t realize it back in the hallway but the smoke that surrounds it thickens into strands of hair, merging to form a heavy coat that adds several inches to its width. It’s so heavy that her tackle doesn’t even stagger it and she’s yanked off her feet as its momentum carries them both away. 

_“shitshitShitSHIT”_ She digs her fingers into its coat, trying to hold on as it surges across the room in powerful bounds and _holy shit_ does it even feel her? She’s not exactly heavyweight division but What The Hell. She drags herself up onto its back and clenches her legs like with her horses, one arm going to wrap around its neck in search of a collar. 

**_“SHIT!”_ ** Her fingers burn against its death-cold flesh, bleeding her body heat like water and leaving her fumbling half-numb through its fur. Her blind grasping catches on something solid and she grips it tight automatically. _It’s like reins,_ she thinks, pulling on what turns out to be the same collar from the painting. _Just like our horses. I can do this, just gotta cut you free._

She forces her stiff fingers around the strip of leather and drags the knife up with deadened limbs, pausing for just a moment to aim before driving it down in a severing blow-

_Fwoompf_

A burst of searing light erupts from between her fingers as the collar and her knife both ignite. Distantly, she notices that the flames aren’t normal, that there’s a green tint to the edges, but most of her attention is fixed on the pain that follows the light. It tears and stabs and boils across her palms and she screams as it strips her senses raw. Her nerves burn below her skin, agony like they’re being pulled out by a million fish hooks. Her fingers seize in vice grips that drive the fire deeper, burning her palms as the rest of her freezes down to her bones.

It’s a relief as the beast spasms violently and twists at _just_ the right angle to break her hold. She’s thrown from it’s back, flames trailing from her scalded fingers, to land _hard_ on the ground. Her breath leaves her lungs in a rush, but years of martial arts don’t just disappear so she rallies almost at once, rolling over and pushing herself- _FUCK nopenopenope can’t do that, hands are NOT working,_ Fuck!

“Daph?” 

Oh, hey, Shaggy’s back. Is the beast looking at them? He should really be running away, that was the whole plan. It’s nice that he’s here though. 

“Like yeah Daph, I’m here. What can I do?” 

Oh wait, he’s _here_ here. She should do something about that. 

She opens her eyes, realizing as she does that they’d been screwed shut from pain, and sees him propping her up in his lap. 

“What’s going on?” she croaks, wincing as the words run ragged through her throat. Shaggy laughs quietly and squeezes her close. 

“You tell me, like, you’re the one who tried to wrestle a wolf. What’re you _doing_ up here?” 

“Get-” She can’t get the words out right, her screams wrecked her voice. She reaches for her phone instead because even though her fingers are _fucked up_ , she can power through that. It’s just pain.

* * *

Scooby sees Daphne go down, shrieking, and he moves on instinct, charging straight for the beast and slamming into its side. It’s _so cold,_ piercing straight through his fur, but he doesn’t back down as they both go tumbling to the floor in a pile of limbs. The beast howls and scratches and bites at him, furiously trying to shove him off, but it’s a mindless sort of anger, unfocused and inefficient. He can almost pin it despite its size just because it doesn’t fight back properly. He kicks its legs, twists its paws, and ignores his numbing toes as he slams it down again and again. 

Scooby and Shaggy have been going to martial arts classes with Daphne for years. Even with the cold, it’s not pushing him off unless he lets it. 

“-oby. _Scooby_!” 

Daphne’s voice barely reaches him over the beast’s howls. She sounds like she’s in pain and fighting through it, a tone he hates being so familiar with. He risks a glance over to see Shaggy propping her up off the ground as they watch the fight. He barks in acknowledgement before the beast kicks him in the stomach and he has to focus on it again. 

It lands a solid hit on his jaw and he tastes blood. He might’ve bit his lip. 

“Get its collar!” Shaggy shouts, and he doesn’t understand that but he sounds serious so he doesn’t question it. He flops onto his side to drag it off balance then shoves all four legs straight out, hard enough to slam it into a pew. It yelps - the first noise it’s made that sounds like a _normal dog_ \- and slumps over, like it’s in pain. He pauses for a moment, because he didn’t think he could actually _hurt_ a ghost, but he can’t waste the opening. 

He charges straight in. It lifts its head to look as he noses at its neck, but apparently he hurt it after all since it’s eyes are half-closed and it’s movements are slow. He doesn’t think about that. 

Something hot sears against his nose, a sharp pain that’s so much worse against the cold, and he jerks back in surprise to see the collar _smoking_ slightly, patches of something black stuck to it. His gasp of pain draws a scent to his nose and _that_ shock far surpasses the heat-pain. It’s the smell of burned flesh, _Daphne’s_ flesh, and that realization sends a wave of sick horror through him. _What happened to her, was she burned is she hurt how bad is it-_

He flinches away as the beast slaps down a massive paw and starts to push itself up. Heart beating, sides heaving, he moves on instinct, lunging in with a snarl to bite at its ~~neck~~ _collar_ , the last of his lucid mind whispers and he obeys. His teeth sink into the leather easily, filling his mouth with blood and carbon dust and making him gag, but he keeps biting in desperation. Daphne burned her hands trying to get this off, he’s _going to get it off._

The beast notices his presence and starts thrashing around, trying to shake him loose, but he plants his legs on the ground and gives the collar a good _yank_.

Amazingly, it works. The leather, old and full of punctures from his teeth, snaps its clasps and he pulls away victoriously, shoving the beast back as he does. 

“Rhake _rhat_ ,” he mumbles around the collar, pleased. He spits it out onto the floor as the beast spins around to face him with a harsh growl. It’s still huge and terrifying, but he’s a lot less afraid now that he knows how it fights. He growls right back.

Its deep rumble suddenly shifts into a confused yip. It shrinks back a step and for the first time something besides fury shows on its face. Its… _afraid?_ What-

It’s then that he notices a flashing light coming from the broken collar between them. Weird runes around its surface are glowing with a bright orange light and it’s growing stronger and, wait, he knows what that looks like oh Uh OH!

He doesn’t realize it in time. The collar explodes in a burst of _pain, burning, blazing needles lights and smoke and he’s falling and the sunlight’s gone and everything’s dark and distant and fading and and and…_

* * *

The second flash galvanized Shaggy into action so he’s able to catch Scooby as he’s thrown through the air, something he regrets immediately as hundreds of pounds of Great Dane slam into him. 

“Oof!” He staggers back but stays standing, barely. Scooby wimpers, from the impact or the explosion he doesn’t know, and he sets him down as gently as he can. Shaggy wants to check him for injuries but he can’t risk looking away from the beast, which is writhing madly on the ground. It’s painful to watch; its limbs twist unnaturally, its back arches almost to the breaking point and its jaws open wide to emit a high, keening shriek of pain, somehow even worse than its hunting howl because it’s completely _normal_. It doesn’t sound like a monster’s cry or some buried nightmare wail; it just sounds like a dog. Like Scooby. 

He wraps his arms around his best friend, contorting a little to cover Scooby’s ears, and waits.

The shriek cuts off abruptly and its body drops to the ground like a marionette without strings. Shaggy watches it in terrified anticipation, but after several seconds where it doesn’t get up again, he lets out a relieved sigh and slumps over.

“This is almost, like, worse than Cutler,” he says quietly. Scooby doesn’t reply, which sends a twist of concern through his gut. 

“Scoob? Buddy?” 

Nothing. 

Ok. That’s not good. 

Familiar footsteps approach and he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“What happened?” Fred asks, looking at both of them in concern. Shaggy gives a watery laugh and switches to cradling Scooby’s head. 

“We like, got the collar off, but it was like, booby-trapped or something,” he says as he looks at his best friend. There’s patches of burned fur along his muzzle and his face is twitching, sort of like he’s having a nightmare. Is he unconscious? _Just_ unconscious, or something worse? He doesn’t know and that’s terrifying. “Scoob’s hurt bad and Daphne’s, like, _really_ hurt bad. Where is she, we gotta help her too!” 

“Velma’s on it,” Fred assures him, looking at something behind them. 

“Let me see!” Velma snaps from the side and Shaggy glances over to see her dragging Daphne’s arms to her front by the wrists. The skin of her palms is burned raw and peeling from second-degree burns and there’s streaks of further burn marks enveloping her whole hands. Velma lets out a string of angry Spanish that Shaggy couldn’t even follow on a good day. 

“I said _don’t get seen,_ I said _come back down,_ ” she says furiously as she pulls a vial from a pocket along her bag and pops it open. “I said _be careful,_ not _burn your hands off_ for it!” 

“You said - get the collar - _off_ before you said all of that.” Daphne's voice sounds ragged, but improving. She grits her teeth as Velma dumps the vial’s contents onto her hands and starts massaging the resulting gel into the burns. Velma doesn’t look away from her work but her growl is a good substitute for a glare. “Also, you never - hhh - said don’t get seen. You said come back down _if_ I get seen. Even so, given the events that - **tsss** \- transpired during my attempt, I felt it necessary to remain present until - _ow_ , okay! I didn’t think of it, things got crazy” 

Velma pointedly doesn’t speak as she drops her hands and grabs a pack of gauze from her bag. Daphne watches her carefully start wrapping her hands, her pained expression lessening, and she smiles before leaning and kissing the top of Velma’s head. She goes bright red and starts wrapping faster. 

“Just don’t do it again,” she mutters, flustered. 

In his arms, Scooby’s twitching stops and he goes limp. Shaggy looks down to see his eyes crack open blearily. 

“Raggy?” he murmurs, then licks at the burned patches around his mouth and grimaces. “Ruck.” 

Shaggy chuckles at his expression. Yeah, that’s probably how he’d wake up too. Gods their lives are weird. 

A hacking cough makes everyone jump, Shaggy twists around frantically, looking for a threat they overlooked in all the chaos, but the only thing nearby is the body of the beast, still lying where it collapsed. 

“What was _that_?” Fred shouts, like any of them has an answer. 

A second cough sounds out and he realizes that it’s coming _from_ the beast. It’s shuddering and twitching, globs of black ichor spattering the ground below its muzzle as it retches painfully. Shaggy reaches out to grasp Fred’s arm and he grips Shaggy right back. Velma lets go of Daphne’s half-bandaged hands to search through her bag, probably for some potion that the Sheriff wouldn’t approve of, and Daphne herself is posed for a brutal kick if she needs it. They all watch the beast nervously.

The smoky ends of its fur are falling, settling on its body in a thick coat. It paws feebly at the ground and manages to roll onto its stomach, then sets its paws to stand. As it pushes itself up, its limbs shaking from the effort, its coat starts to _slide_ from its body in an almost fluid wave. It pours over its face, its chest, its legs; collecting into a melted black mass that slowly makes its way towards the floor. 

What. The heck. 

As the mass pours down its body, other changes become obvious. The majority of its bulk joins the wave; its limbs shorten as black runs down to pool by its paws, its body sags and drips around its ribs, and the sight of its head melting is, honestly, not something Shaggy wants to put into words. 

Something catches his eye in the center of the scene. Where the beast’s massive body used to be centered, a solid shape is starting to poke out. It’s like someone hid a toy inside a candle and now the wax is melting around it, which is a really messed up juxtaposition honestly. 

Without warning the side of the mass surges outward, splattering across the ground, and a long-but-not-unnatural muzzle breaks through the surface. It’s followed by long, floppy ears, then a pair of furry paws, then all at once an _entire animal_ bursts through the surface and falls to the ground with a _yip_.

Again. What the heck.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Velma says softly. Daphne and Fred both nod in agreement. 

The beast (dog?) coughs again, but this time it’s a normal cough; no ichor or vomit. It paws at its face then drags itself over to lay all fours and slowly opens its eyes, blinking in the sunlight. 

Shaggy isn’t the only one who gasps as it faces them. Its eyes aren’t glowing white anymore - they’re dark and emotive, flicking around with visible confusion as it takes in the scene. Its black fur is matted and sticky, but underneath he can tell it used to be a beautiful dog; one who was exquisitely cared for during its life, but has been neglected. With its coat clinging so close, he can see how thin it is, how its limbs shake and its ears lay limp. 

He sees the moment its mind catches up to its senses. Its eyes widen and it jerks back, scrabbling against the floor as it pushes itself away and around the side of the weird black mass where it huddles down, just barely visible. 

There’s a long pause as everyone stares at it. 

“Uh…” Fred says blankly. Shaggy and the girls look at him, then each other, and he can tell they all have similar feelings. This is so far outside what they were expecting today. 

“Raggy.” 

Scooby’s watching the dog with an indecipherable expression. He gently pushes Shaggy’s arm away and gets to his feet. “Ret re go,” he says quietly. Shaggy hesitates, still worried about his burns, but Scooby has a determined look and a lot of muscle so he can’t really stop him. He nods and lets go. Scooby gently presses his nose against his cheek in reassurance before turning to face the dog. 

“Rhi there.” 

The dog flinches at his voice. He expected that, they’ve got to be confused and scared. Have they been conscious this whole time, or did they just wake up in a ruined chapel after centuries? 

He pads just into their line of sight and sits down, looking as non-threatening as he can. He licks his burns again, trying to ignore the dull heat still throbbing beneath his skin. It hurts, of course, but he’s surprised that it doesn’t hurt _much._ From the glimpse he’d caught of Daphne’s hands, he’s a little surprised. He should’ve been burned a lot worse. 

After about a minute, the dog peeks around the side of the mass. They meet his eyes and flinch back again. Not enough to lose sight of him, though. That’s a start. 

“Rit’s alright. Ri ron’t hurt you,” he says, softly and with a slight lisp. Right. “Re rust want to help. Ro you understand me?” He tries to speak slower to compensate for the burns. The dog finally looks at him directly, something shifting behind their eyes, then they carefully straighten up and rise to their paws with only a little shaking. 

As they step out into view he gets a proper look at them and several things come to his attention. 

First; their claws may be smaller, but they’re still very long and _very_ sharp, and the _chik-chikk_ of footsteps isn’t much quieter now. Second; their teeth long and just scary as when they were a smoke monster. Third; they still stand almost eye-to-eye with him, so wherever the ring of material came from, most of it did _not_ come from their height.

That’s actually concerning, especially with how thin they are. 

The dog sits down heavily and stares at him. They’re trembling a little, like the effort of walking forward was too much to handle, and he has a sudden urge to protect them. Which is maybe odd given that they were just trying to maul the gang, but whatever. 

The dog opens their mouth, hesitates, and closes it. They lick their lips before trying again. 

“ I gree t y ou.”

Their voice is rough and scratchy from disuse, the words coming out in halting steps as they struggle to speak, but their gaze is steady. Purposeful, with an intensity that only comes from a lifetime of confident authority, and Scooby suppresses a shiver. 

Who _were_ they, in their former life? 

Following a gut feeling, he bows to them. “Ri greet you rhoo,” he says politely. They don’t react, so he probably responded correctly. “Ri’m Scooby Doo. Rhat’s your name?” 

The dog blinks, then cocks their head to the side and their gaze drifts past him. 

“I do n ot know,” they say slowly, absently. “I h ave been… l o st to t he wo rld. I ha v e los t mu ch of my sel f.” 

And wow, that just makes him want to help even more. Whatever turned them into a monster must’ve involved some serious magic. 

“Rhat ran you remember?” he asks gently. “Rho you rhow where rou are or rhow rou rhot here?”

Their eyes drift back to him, though the rest of their expression remains blank. Their head slowly tilts to the other side, almost exactly like how Fizzlet looks when he’s thinking. Scooby doesn’t think they’re as deep in thought as the little fairy, though. Their gaze is much… emptier _._ Like they aren’t quite _seeing_ him. He’s not a qualified psychologist or anything but he has some suspicions about that.

“I am in O ur Hous e,” they say at last. “I w as to prot ec t the sou ls in thei r rest. Wha t h as-” 

They break into another coughing fit. Scooby steps forward on impulse but he can’t do anything to help so he just watches awkwardly. They shake their head and look back at him. 

“F or give me,” they say simply, and fall silent. 

Their gaze is a little less intense now, but not in a good way. They look a little like Shaggy sometimes does after chases, once his adrenaline fades. 

Maybe a distraction will help. He taps a claw against the dirt and carefully traces out the six-spoked wheel that’s all over the chapel. “Rhoes rhis rean anything to you?” He gestures to it, and at least they follow his movement. Confused but responsive, he can work with that.

Their eyes widen as they examine the mark. “ _That_ is… it w as my mas ter ’s. We. I kno w it. It wa s the.” Their voice wavers and catches on the last word. They look down, but not before Scooby sees a tremor of fear building in their expression. Distraction _not_ helpful, dammit. Oops. 

“Rit’s alright,” he says quickly. “Ruh. You’re rhafe. Rhon’t try to rhorce your remories to rome rack, rhey’ll do rat at their rown rate.” He hopes they understand what he’s saying, language was probably way different when they were… alive? Not monstrous? … When they were a pup, that’s safe. 

They sniffle quietly, which he pretends not to hear as they look back up at him. Their eyes are bright with unshed tears, but their expression is firm. 

“I am un cer tain,” they say, and their voice is stronger, clear. “Thi s wor ld is u n fami liar. I ha ve for go tten mu ch, an d I am no lon ger beh el d to Ou r ma ster. Thi s Hou se…” They look around at the chapel and Scooby sees flickers of sadness through their stoicism. “I t is no lo n ger the Hou se o f O ur w o r shi p. I a m no lon ge r its guar di a n.” 

Scooby can hear the capitalizations on some of those words. He doesn’t interrupt, even though he _really_ wants to ask about it. 

They carefully push to their feet. They’re still shivering a little, but it’s nothing like it was before. The way they’re pawing at the ground, though; that’s nothing like before as well, but in the exact opposite way. 

“Scooby Doo,” they begin, then glance past him towards where the rest of the gang probably are and quickly add “...a nd compa nion s. I.. wi sh to trav el. Thi s wo rld is stran ge, a nd I wou ld kno w it be tter. Thro ugh your ac tions I hav e retur ned to my ri ght mind. I than k you, and am in your d ebt. I shal l see it re pai d som e day.” 

They bow their head slightly before turning to face the ceiling. They catch the light streaming through the broken walls and close their eyes, basking in the afternoon sun. Glints of light flicker from their fur as their shaking limbs settle down and their breathing (they still breathe?) slows to an imperceptible pace. They’re as still as a statue, beautiful and poised, and Scooby’s breath catches at the sight. 

He’s never seen obsidian in person before, but he thinks they look like they were carved from it. 

The moment lasts as long as it takes him to breathe again, and then the scene changes. A whisper of wind sighs through, stirring the disturbed dust and rippling their fur like midnight ocean waves. Scattered glints sparkle across their body, growing and spreading and flowing out through their fur in a wash of reflected sunlight to illuminate the whole nave, and just before it’s too bright to watch, their eyes snap open. 

In one fluid motion they spread their legs, tensing, then dart forwards towards the wall. A trail of wispy fur follows them, like they’re shedding mass again but less melting-candle and more candlewick-smoke. 

They leap from pew to window and their luminescence shifts under the stained glass’s light, scattering rainbows across the walls as they twist, paws flat against the window in a blatant disregard for gravity. With a final push they spring off the glass and into the air. 

As they soar above his head their figure flickers, wavers, and then splinters into a million threads of fur. A sudden breeze catches the strands and sends them dancing, and he watches them fly through the cracks in the building and out of sight. 

The day is still cloudlessly sunny, but the room feels darker without them. 

“Well _that’s_ going to be an entry in my records,” Velma breaks the silence from behind him. She comes up to his side and puts a hand between his ears to give scratches. Scooby sighs and leans into it, and tension he didn’t even realize he was _holding_ melts away. “Rainbow ghost dog found haunting unrecognized historical site; embarks on world-spanning spiritual journey after surprising pep-talk.” 

She gives him a _look_. “So, mister negotiator, do you think it’s safe to let it go? I don't want to add more victims to the record.” 

She says it like a joke but there’s steel behind it. Scooby swallows nervously and nods. 

“Rit’s rokay, ri rhink rhey meant it,” he says, trying to appear confident. He _does_ think they won’t cause any trouble, but it’s just a gut instinct and Velma always prefers evidence. 

She scans his face for a second, then sighs in acquiescence. She goes to rub her eyes before remembering the blood smeared across her palms and lets them drop.

“Okay. Then let’s get you two to the hospital before today gets any more interesting.” 

Oh yeah. Hospital. The pain from his burns flares back up, accompanied by a steady ache deep within his muscles. He’s definitely not used to fighting like that, even with all their martial arts training. He follows her back to the others, where Fred took over finishing Daphne’s bandages. 

“Like, good work, buddy,” Shaggy says softly as he bumps against his best friend. He’s sitting on the ground with one pant leg rolled up and a nasty scrape across his shin. Scooby looks at it in concern and Shaggy laughs. “Don't worry, it’ll be, like, fine tomorrow.” 

Scooby offers him a shoulder to lean on anyways and he accepts, pushing himself onto shakey feet with only a slight wince. 

“Rhelma says we rhould ro to rhe hospital ranyways,” Scooby informs him in case he hadn’t heard. Shaggy perks up. 

“Like that sounds great, hospital food’s all you can eat!” 

“Only because you two metabolize everything as soon as you get it,” Velma calls to them from where she’s checking the bandages. “You’d _starve_ if they gave you normal portions!” 

Just for emphasis, both their stomachs growl loudly. Scooby giggles because really, he can’t deny it. Velma rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. 

“Come on gang.” Fred gestures to the van once she lets go of Daphne, apparently finding his work acceptable. “Sheriff Stone should be done by now. We’ll get back to town and figure out what to do next.” 

Shaggy and Scooby gingerly make their way back to the van and together the five of them pile in. Fred backs up to the edge of the road, then shifts and inches forwards, turning, then switches to backing up again… it’s a lot-of-points-turn okay, and eventually they’re facing out of the woods. 

Scooby watches the chapel fade away through the back window. It looks the same as when they arrived, but something _feels_ different. Empty, like a tree you’ve passed by every day suddenly being cut down and now you’re caught off guard every time you _don’t_ see it. 

As they break through the treeline and thud back onto the road, he realizes what he’s missing. The prickling recognition that’d been lurking in the back of his mind since they found the chapel is gone. He doesn’t know when it faded, but if pressed he’d bet it left with the dog. 

He wonders what it means, that the guardian’s absence is already changing the building’s presence, emptying it of purpose. 

He wonders if he’ll ever learn their name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this one, but I also just want to get it out. It's been almost three months, it's time.


	5. Phantom of the Fair

4:14 P.M., Wednesday

* * *

“Easy… Easy… ok, there!” 

Fred and Velma carefully set the heavy box down inside the Dinkley house’s garage. Dozens of similar boxes line the walls, all with tags denoting their contents and mysteries of origin. Velma had to move them out of the house last year, after her parents not-so-subtly suggested that it might be good to have more space in her room. They were right, but she’ll never admit it.

“Thanks for going back with me,” she says sincerely as she pries the lid open. The box is filled with parchment and books from below the chapel; whatever she could safely remove. The bottles and tools are still there, behind a re-sealed trapdoor, and hopefully they’ll _stay_ there until she figures out what to do with them. Some of the potions _might’ve_ become unstable with age.

“Of course!” Fred says immediately, like it never occurred to him to refuse. It probably didn’t. He’s too good not to help, the goof. 

She gently starts to remove documents and sort them out onto a table. They’re written in Old English so she has to guess at the contents. Not as much as she used to, the museum job is good for _some_ things, but she’s still looking forward to hours of translation before she can organize everything completely. It’s going to be great.

A ping sounds from Fred ‘s phone and he pulls it out quickly. She didn’t realize he was just standing there doing nothing. She… probably should’ve made sure he knew he could leave if he wanted. Oh well. 

“What’s the word?” she asks to cover up her mistake. Fred scans the notification, frowns, holds it closer, and squints as he rereads it. What… 

“It’s from Daphne.” Ah. Of course. “She says… she, Scooby and Shaggy are going out, and we’re invited.” 

“She remembers she almost burned her hands off, right?” Velma asks wryly, shooting him a glance over a dense sheet of calligraphy. 

In an astonishing display of attitude, Fred rolls his eyes. “She might not. You know she doesn’t stop for anything.” 

Velma snorts at the understatement. Daphne’s like a force of nature sometimes. She _still_ doesn’t quite understand how such a hellcat came out of the Blake family, even having met her sisters. Growing up in their shadows would be an explanation, except Daphne thinks the other Blake girls are the coolest people on the planet and she’s _right_.

Daisy had warned her, when she first met them, that Daphne was the worst patient ever. She regrets not taking her seriously at first.

“I don’t have anything else to move right now so you can go join them if you want,” she specifically tells Fred this time. “I might catch up with you once I’ve done enough here. Where are they heading?”

He hums and taps his screen for a bit until another notification sounds. “She says… they’re going to the Sea of Mystery!” His voice rises in excitement. “Oh, I heard they have a new improv theatre group in town and they’re supposed to have an amazing tech crew! Let’s go check them out!” 

_The pier._ Velma stares down at the book in her hands. It’s dark leather, edged in silver, with an embossed compass filling the center space. The title is some flowing script that’s way too fancy for its time, and her eyes track its curves automatically without her paying attention to what it says. Her mind is _years away, lost in half-kept memories of summer, of laughter, of hands grasped tight and writing on the undersides of booths and sneaking coins from the arcade machines when their allowances ran out-_

“Pass,” she snaps, both at him and at herself as she shuts those memories away. If her voice shakes, he doesn’t notice. “These files are amazing; they haven’t aged nearly as much as they should have so I need to get them into preservation immediately. This could be a huge addition to the museum.” 

Fred nods in misunderstanding acknowledgement of her reasoning and brushes himself off. “Okay. I’ll see you later, then!” 

Velma waves absently, already reaching for another page. As much as she enjoys hanging out with the gang, the Sea of Mystery is _~~too painful~~ _not her usual scene. Besides, _someone’s_ got to handle all their evidence, and it’s not like any of the others can do it. 

She tries to ignore the emotions rattling through her brain, in favor of the work ahead.

* * *

“Like, this hits the spot!” Shaggy says around a mouthful of popcorn. Scooby noses the bottom of the bucket so some spills over the side and he nabs them all before they hit the ground. The stand owner, Charlie, chuckles at them from behind his popcorn machine. 

“Th’new butter’s right well-done ain’t it?” he asks cheerfully as Shaggy licks his fingers. “Ah just got a tub from Gerry o’er there, ‘e’s been workin’ on new recipes all day. Can’t say ah think much o’ the stuff, but ’s right good fer folks wut want it.” 

“It’s totally, like, A-plus butter!” Shaggy says happily. “Where does Gerry get it from? We’ve been looking for good butter for, like, forever!” 

“‘E says ‘e makes it ‘imself. Y’might wanna go ask ‘im ‘bout it afore e’s busy with customers.” Charlie says knowingly as he scoops a second bucket, this time with a strap that hangs around Scooby’s neck so he can get at it easily. Scooby eagerly ducks his head so Charlie can slip it on, then wastes no time taking a happy bite. 

Shaggy snickers at the loud crunching as he looks around. There’s not a _ton_ of people on the pier right now and Wednesdays aren’t usually very busy, but Charlie has a point. They can’t expect the cooks to take time away from their jobs just to talk, so they should plan for as much time as possible. 

“Rokay! Re better ro refore everyone rakes all ris stock!” Scooby tugs eagerly on his shirt sleeve and Shaggy lets him pull him away without much resistance. 

“Okay, okay! We’ll like, see you around, man!” he calls back to a now-laughing Charlie. 

They wave goodbye and make their way down the rows of food carts. Vendors call out familiar greetings as they pass, waving them over for a quick word or an exchange of cooking tips. Shaggy and Scooby stop every few booths or so; not long, but enough to catch up on gossip. They haven’t come by since before the Rat King case, after all. 

When they arrive, Gerry’s tart stall has a few people milling around the front as the man in question hands a stack of tarts to a middle-aged couple. He’s a strange sight even by Coolsville standards; his bright hawaiian shirt clashes with his long black hair and dark makeup, making him look sort of like a zombie at a Jimmy Buffett concert. Shaggy approves. 

“Hi Gerry!” he calls as the last customer leaves the line. “Like how’s it going, man?” 

Gerry gives him a cheerful smile. “Oh! Hiya Shaggy! Hiya Scooby! It’s been good, y’know, just rolled out some new recipes and I’m seein’ how they go over! Here, try a bit.” He breaks a tart in half and tosses one to each of them. Scooby leaps up and snags it midair, fumbles a little due to his injuries, but recovers and catches it neatly before it hits the ground. 

Shaggy just catches it with his hands. Gerry gives them a round of friendly applause as they both chomp down with gusto. 

Shaggy blinks in surprise as, instead of the delicate sweetness of Gerry’s usual product, his mouth is filled with a salty-savory taste. He chews slowly, letting the flavor reach all his taste buds so he can judge it better. It’s almost like a mini meat pie, but after a moment of panic he realizes that the ingredients have to be vegan. Gerry knows him. Still, it’s a very good imitation - better than Shaggy’s ever managed. 

“Like, zoinks, man, what’d you make these with?” He asks as he licks the crumbs off his fingers. Gerry passes him a napkin with an amused eyeroll. 

“Coconut milk and a _lot_ of experimenting! I got a whole selection of flora from the Silverfin clan last week!” He waves a hand out towards the bay. “They’re in town for the spring ‘n they brought a ton of stuff to trade. They won’t tell me where they got the coconuts, so it’s gotta be somethin’ they bred up themselves. It’s so weird, they’re more salty than sweet, but I think it’s way better for these.” He taps a stack of papers that Shaggy realizes are fresh menus. Oooh! 

“Like, totally, man! It’s saltbread, right? It’s way better for the flavor profile, you’re a genius!” Shaggy says as he grabs a menu to look over. There’s an entire new section on vegetarian & vegan recipes that must use the new milk and butter, and he scans them avidly. 

Gerry rubs his head in embarrassment. “Well, I mean, it’s just a first try? I dunno if they’re really all that great though, no one’s really said anything. They just walk away...“

“You rhut your routh, rit’s rantastic! Rhey rust don’t appreciate food rike we roo _._ ” Scooby grins and buries his face in his popcorn bucket. Enthusiastic crunching sounds serve to support his claim and Gerry laughs despite himself. _Success._

“Like yeah, man, we always give it to you straight,” Shaggy adds. Gerry raises an amused eyebrow and he quickly amends, “Ok yeah, like, I know. But you know what I mean, man.” 

“Yeah, I do. Thanks, guys,” Gerry chuckles. He runs a hand through his hair, to distract from his embarrassment Shaggy thinks, and smiles. “Anyways! What’s new with you two? Haven’t seen you around all month, folks’re startin’ to get worried.” 

“Like, man, where do we even start?” Shaggy checks for a line forming behind them and, seeing no one, launches into a summary of the Rat King case. Gerry listens with amusement that slowly turns to anger as they start explaining the clues that led them to Walts’s scheme. 

By the end of it, Gerry’s expression has lost all its cheer. His scowl is frightening, and accented by his gothic makeup. “Damn,” he growls. “Walts’d pegged a few of our cooks before, too. Always thought it was strange, that they’d get so unsafe without getting noticed. Think they can get their permits back, now that he’s busted?” 

“We’ll make sure Sheriff Stone takes care of that,” Shaggy promises and Scooby nods in agreement. It’s an easy promise to make - the pier’s resident chefs are a tight-knit community and they both respect them a lot. 

The string of lights over their heads flares suddenly, making the duo jump and yelp in surprise, but Gerry just glances up with a grimace like it’s an everyday thing. Which it totally isn’t, the pier has really good electrical systems and Shaggy’s never seen a surge like that. 

“What’s with the lights, man?” 

“Ah, that’s been happening all week,” Gerry shrugs, nonchalant. “Not sure why, even Marcie can’t pin down what’s goin’ on. ‘S not a big deal, worst that’s happened is a ride getting stuck for a few minutes. It’s a real pain sometimes, but what can we do?” 

“We could, like, see if Fred can help?” Shaggy suggests vaguely. Fred’s more mechanical engineering than electrical engineering, but they all know he’s decent at it. Gerry thinks for a moment, then shakes his head and waves a hand dismissively. 

“Naw, don’t worry. We’ll get it somehow. You kids just worry about enjoying yourselves, ok?” 

“Rokay!” Scooby answers happily, licking the last of the popcorn out of his bucket. Shaggy gives Gerry a thumbs up and a smile. That’s totally the kind of advice they love to hear.

* * *

A few hundred feet from the food kiosks, the gates of the Hell-Ter Skelter open and a group of excited riders staggers out into the crowds in various states of nausea. Heading the pack, and clearly still at the top of her game, is Daphne, her pretty lace dress at odds with the tough leather gloves running halfway up her arms. And the knee-high boots she’s wearing. And the bandages littering her skin. Actually, if she wasn’t owning the look so much, she’s sure she’d be getting comments from the other fairgoers. 

Whatever. _Streetwise Sweetheart_ is totally an aesthetic. 

Not that it’s _just_ for the aesthetic, though. Velma practically ordered her to wear the gloves until her hands healed up. They’re specially sealed and lined with a potent medical paste she’d brewed up overnight, then straight up _thrown_ at Daphne the moment they met at school. Then she’d apologized and helped her put them on.

She flexes her fingers and winces as pins-and-needles race up her nerves. The gel helps a fuckton, no question, but Velma must’ve used one _hell_ of an anaesthetic compound too. It totally numbed the pain but it replaced it with weird phantom signals that sneak up on her at random moments. 

Either that or it's from the adrenaline rush. Maybe those disclaimer signs have a point… 

As she waits for her heartbeat to slow down she looks around for another ride. The line for the Dead Drop is pretty short so she makes her way over and slides in behind a pair of loud middle schoolers having a loud discussion. 

“-no way dude, the game totally glitched! I so woulda beaten your score!” one shouts with a handwave that she neatly blocks before it can smack her in the stomach. The boy jerks around and looks at her in surprise as the girl stares at where Daphne’s holding onto the tiny fist (and that’s so weird, the gang wasn’t _that_ tiny three years ago, were they?)

What must be the mother of the two, who look like twins, is also looking at her over their heads. She scrutinizes Daphne closely before her face twists into a scowl.

“Let go of my son,” she snaps in the snootiest voice Daphne’s heard in, like, a week. Daphne releases the fist, but she looks at the kids instead of acknowledging the mom. The boy looks a little flustered, while the girl’s beaming at her with stars in her eyes. Awww, she gets to be a bad influence!

“Sounds like you had an interesting time at the arcade.” She’s careful not to sound accusing. The mom looks like she wants to respond, probably telling Daphne to buzz off, but the kids jump in before she can. 

“We were playin’ _Riot Storm_ but the game glitched out on the last boss!” the girl shoves her brother aside eagerly. “It was so stupid, he was at like, ten percent and then it went crazy with like, lights and static and stuff!”

“Yeah, I was in the lead too! It went all _brr-drrr-drrrrr_ , you know?” her brother interrupts, jerking his arms around in a decent imitation of videogame lag. His sister glares and leans away from his flailing limbs. “Watch it!” she hisses, and he sticks his tongue out in return. 

Daphne smiles to herself as they start shoving each other. Their competitiveness is so _precious_. 

Their mom puts a hand on a shoulder each and they fall silent. “I’ve _told_ you two, you spend too much time on those games,” she says severely. “You must’ve broken it, that’s all. Now, why don’t you apologize to the _nice lady_ for almost hitting her.”

“We’re sorry,” they both mumble, looking down. The mom nods and turns back to Daphne. 

“I’m sorry about them, they’re always so excited when they get to come here,” she says with a fake smile, her hands still on their shoulders. “You’ll understand when you have your own.” 

_Well._

“Don’t talk to people like that, you don’t know what they might think,” she hisses at them quietly, like she doesn’t think Daphne can hear her from _four feet away._ Some people, _honestly._

Daphne allows herself raised eyebrows, but otherwise doesn’t react to the lady. She has no interest in picking a fight with a woman who’s definitely not worth the energy.

“Don’t worry, I understand,” she says directly to the boy. “If the arcade’d lost my records I’d be upset too. Here’s a tip for next time, though - if you use both guns at once, you do way better. You’d have to play separately, but it’s _so_ easier to get high scores that way.” 

Their earlier awe is nothing on the excitement they show now. Daphne wonders for a moment how often they get to talk about it (they’re clearly proud of their efforts) before dismissing the thought. There’s not much more she can do, besides just listening.

“Really? How do you know so much about it?” the girl asks, fascinated. Daphne grins. 

“I’m a Coolsville native, kid, I know this town and everything in it. I’ve been queen of the arcade for years! Next time you're there, check for Daphne Ann Blake, I think I’m still top of the DDR and Whack-a-Mole all-time scoreboards.” 

“Your name’s DAB?” the boy snickers, which, yeah that’s about what she was going for when she picked it. 

“Well, I don’t have time to dab on all my haters in person,” she says with her smarmiest smile and they both make faces of entertained disgust. The girl even sticks her tongue out, which _absolutely_ validates her name choice. 

The woman is frowning at all three of them, but before she gets a chance to intrude again the operator calls out and the line moves forward. The kids wave and call “bye!” as they run up to claim seats, all concerns forgotten in their excitement. Daphne sighs, smiles to herself, and heads around to the far side to claim one of the seats facing out over the ocean. The sun is at just the right angle to light the wave crests in a blanket of scattered diamonds, turning the sea into an endless luminescent tapestry. Far in the distance she can just about see a pod of merfolk swimming alongside the dark shadow of a whale. 

The sight settles deep within her soul; a simple moment of harmony between the human world and the world beyond. Coolsville’s ideal made manifest. 

“Alright folks, seats down.” 

The moment breaks as the operator comes around to check everyone’s seats, tugging dispassionately on the guard bars and totally blocking her view. Daphne pulls her attention back and grips the guard bar, then recognizes the problem with that and hooks her elbows around it instead. She hasn’t been hurt this bad in a while and it’s proving much more annoying than she remembers. 

“Keep your belts on and _do not_ shake the ride,” the operator continues as he checks the last few seats. “It won’t break anything but it makes people uncomfortable so _don’t be rude._ ” The last three words are accompanied by the hardened glare of a man who fears neither customer nor superior. 

Abrasive, but effective. With all the riders properly secure, he heads back to the controls. Daphne shifts her arms a little in anticipation. 

The ride starts to whir, lights flashing and cheesy 80’s evil laughter crackling from the speakers, but it only rises like six feet before jerking to a stop with a _thud._

“Everybody relax,” the operator says loudly as the riders start crying out in concern and some try to lean forward in their seats. “It’s normal, don’t freak out. Save that for the exciting part.”

He sounds bored, but Daphne doesn’t buy it. The _Dead Drop_ has a steady rise to the top followed by a series of bouncing drops, it does _not_ stop on the way up. She stares back out over the ocean, unseeing, her brain whirring into overdrive.

A glitchy arcade system doesn’t mean much; some of the machines are old, and even the pier’s best technicians can’t protect them from ocean air corrosion forever. A ride, though? Especially one like _Dead Drop_ ? The pier has never once lapsed on ride safety standards, not in thirty years. That’s _so_ much more suspicious. 

Once is happenstance and twice is coincidence, but she knows damn well that coincidences don’t happen in the mystery business. As soon as this thing drops, she’s _got_ to check out the kids’ story.

* * *

The performers’ area of the pier is packed. The theatre crew must be really well-known if this many people came out to see them on a school night - Fred can see dozens of people in the audience seating, and there’s half as many again who’re hanging out on the walkway to watch. It’s sort of strange that he’s never heard of The Fairview County Theatre Troupe before, but he supposes he can’t know them all. 

Fred himself is seated a ways from the stage, having finally reached the pier from the Dinkleys’ house. He bites into an elephant ear as he watches them practice set changes. Their use of condensed pulley systems is amazing, able to move pieces with ease without sacrificing lift capacity. Maybe they’ll tell him where they got them, he still hasn’t found small pulleys that can reliably lift a human-sized cage plus captive. 

He looks down at the blueprints in front of him with a sigh. It must be nice to have those kinds of resources instead of scavenging in junkyards for every trap. He’s used up a ton of materials on his bolas launcher and he can’t afford to experiment with it until he figures out exactly what he did wrong. 

And he’s _so close_ too… 

A weight thumps onto his back and a thin, pale hand reaches over his shoulder to poke at his papers. 

“Heya, Fredward. What’re you guys doing here?”

“Hi Marcie!” Fred looks up at the girl leaning against him. Marceline Fleach grins and waves lazily back, her brown hair tucked in a bun and smears of oil marking her cheeks. “How’re the rides?”

Marcie rolls her eyes with a huff. “Well, some brats decided to stress-test the teacups and therefore test my stress levels, so I’d say the rides are just _fantastic_ today, thank you for asking. And you didn’t give me an answer, _Fred_.” 

“Oh yeah. The gang wanted a day off after our last case. Daphne and Scooby got burned pretty badly yesterday.” 

Her face scrunches up in a frown. “How did _that_ happen? I didn’t think miss perfect could _make_ a mistake like that, and they’re not dumb enough to burn themselves on purpose.” 

Fred nods in agreement. “It surprised us too. I think Velma said it was a ward to keep anyone from removing the collar, but Scooby got it off anyways. I don’t know why it burned Daphne more than him though.”

Marcie stares down at him. He waits for her to respond, or ask or something, but several seconds pass and she doesn’t do anything except blink slowly. 

He coughs awkwardly and holds his papers up so she can see them better. “Hey, can you check my math? The firing mechanism’s jamming and I don’t know where the problem is.” 

Her face brightens as he waves them and she shoves herself to her feet. “Sure. I’d love to spend my break doing complicated physics calculations by hand,” she smiles. 

“Thanks!”

Marcie slides onto the bench and tugs the notes towards her. Fred takes another bite from his hot dog as she pulls a pencil from her hair and hunches over, eyes flickering through his scribbled handwriting. 

“You tried the new barrel diameter already?” she asks, circling a few numbers and starting a new line below. 

“Yeah. I thought I had it right, but it jammed when I tried to fire. It went off after a bit, which was weird because I didn’t _do_ anything to it. I was just showing it to my dad.” 

Marcie hums and bites her blood-red lip. She flips to the blueprint pages and holds them up to the light, for some reason. He doesn’t think that’ll help her see it better but he doesn’t say that. She doesn’t question his methods, he doesn’t question hers. 

He turns back to watch the troupe as she works. A woman in an elegant green dress is clashing swords with an armored figure as a trio of child actors cower in mock fear behind her. He doesn’t recognize the story, but their swordsmanship is incredible. It’s too bad Daphne’s not here, she’d love to watch their performance. Especially when the kids break cover and draw knives to tackle the armored man to the ground. The audience cheers and applauds and Fred can’t help but clap along. The cast bows and hurries off the stage as the walls start to shift again, and he takes another bite as he goes back to watching the stage techs work.

He’s just finishing his elephant ear by the time Marcie taps on his arm. “Here,” she says absently, not looking at him as she shifts his notes back into order. “There’s too much pressure on the firing pin. Cut it down _this_ much, and replace the main spring with… one rated for _this_ tension.” She finishes her math and spins the page back to show him the new numbers. They aren’t _much_ different, but as he compares the values he can see where his mistake was. Great - he should have just enough materials left. He can try it tonight without having to visit the junkyard first. 

“Thanks Marcie! I was going to ask Velma to look it over but she’s busy sorting everything we found for the case.” 

Marcie hums a low tone. Fred looks up to see her staring out into the crowd. Her smile is gone, replaced by a neutral expression that he can’t read. 

“Yeah. I’m sure she would do fine,” she says without looking at him. “I need to make sure the teacup repairs hold up. Good luck with your gun, Detective Jones.” 

“Oh. Okay, thanks! Good luck!”

He gives her a wave as she stands and walks away. Marcie’s always been a little distant, but she’s a good friend. Brilliant, too. The theatre department works with the robotics club for a lot of their shows and Marcie’s easily the best engineer they have. Her programmable set bases alone have changed their entire design process. 

It’s too bad she’s not interested in mysteries. She and Velma would probably work together great.

“Like, on your left, Scoob!” 

“Ri don’t rink so! Reet cherry romb, Raggy!” 

An explosion of colorful sprinkles sends Shaggy’s cart flying off the cakeway and back to 8th place. Scooby snickers, twisting and turning in the way gamers totally don’t need to but always do anyways as he slides through a shortcut into first place with ease. 

“You don’t even have, like, _thumbs_ , man!” Shaggy faux-whines, mashing his controls as he struggles to catch up. It’s a close race and the A.I. racers aren’t the smartest, and with a well-timed boost item Scooby’s back in sight. The two growl in synchronized concentration as they clash neck-and-neck at the front of the pack, kept apart only by the width of their carts.

Twenty seconds of fierce fighting finally breaks as Scooby snags an item box by a hair and boosts ahead, sailing straight across the finish line just milliseconds ahead of Shaggy. “Rhes! Ri win!” he cheers as the machine blares out its peppy victory tune. Shaggy groans but schools his face and holds his hand out in concession. Scooby composes himself to return the handshake, and they both manage to hold serious expressions for several seconds before breaking down into laughter.

“Like, nice timing, buddy. That bomb sent me, like, all the way back.” Scooby snickers as he enters his name in the end screen. It’s not the top time but he’s on the board. “Want a rematch?”

Scooby hums thoughtfully, then shakes his head. “Rah. Re rhant hog it. Rhets go rhind another rhame.” 

They surrender the _Sugar Rush_ machines to new players and wander towards the prize-game area. Shaggy looks through the cases for anything interesting, considering a set of cooking knives and a frying pan before seeing the ticket price and deciding against it. They look like quality brands but they’re not worth _that_ much effort. 

A shout catches his attention through the general chatter. He looks over to see two freshmen furiously fighting the controls of a crane game. The claw’s stuttering across the case, accompanied by flickering lights around the sides. Shaggy’s never seen an arcade machine act like that; the pier staff usually keep them in excellent condition. 

“Goddammit!” one of the teens yells and kicks the machine angrily. “Stupid thing ate our coins. C’mon, let’s go get someone to open it up.” 

The two stalk off. Scooby bumps Shaggy’s side and glances up, rolling his eyes. 

“Like I’m sure glad we were never like that, huh buddy?” Shaggy smiles, scratching his ears. Scooby chuckles and leans against him. 

“Ri wouldn’t rave stuck around rif you were,” he says warmly. Shaggy wraps an arm around him and gives him a playfully tight squeeze.

“Aw c’mon, Scoob, you’re embarrassing me”

Scooby laughs and licks his face. 

Shaggy wipes the slobber off with his sleeve and glances back after the jerks, then does a double-take at the sight of a younger kid, maybe ten or eleven, creeping up after the teens are out of the room. They drop their coin in and lean against the glass, their attention focused on a specific prize. The claw shudders into motion _in time_ with the flickering lights - not just the ones on the machine, but the ceiling lights too. Shaggy knows for a _fact_ they aren’t on the same circuit, what the heck?

The claw comes to a stop and the kid hits the drop button excitedly, sending it creaking on its way. There’s another flicker of lights as it reaches a stuffed lion, and then it clamps shut with surprising force. _Suspiciously_ surprising force, actually, and Shaggy feels a spike of foreboding prickling at his senses. He rests a hand on Scooby’s head in warning and watches closely, but surreptitiously. 

As the claw rises, the surrounding lights change from flickers to a steady, brightening glow that’s almost _audible._ As the lion drops into the chute, the kid cheers and grabs it excitedly, smiling as wide as their face allows. They bounce a little before running off to show their (presumable) parents, and a series of small, luminous pulses pass through the ceiling lights as they race out the doors. 

Shaggy stands still for several seconds, watching the exit and processing that whole series of events. Trying, and failing, to sort through his knowledge of the paranormal for an explanation. 

“Did you see that, Scoob?” he asks, lowering his voice as much as possible while still being audible.

“Ruh uh. Ri didn’t see anything.” Scooby steadfastly refuses to follow Shaggy’s gaze. He’s a really bad liar though; his ears are twitching after the kid’s departure and his tail’s lashing around in clear unease. Shaggy tugs his ear gently and gives him an encouraging pat on the head. 

“C’mon buddy, it’s okay. Like, Gerry said it’s been happening for, like, a week, and nobody’s been hurt. We can totally handle a bunch of lights.” 

Scooby shoots him a look that says he _absolutely_ doesn’t believe it’s that simple, which, yeah, Shaggy doesn’t really believe it himself. Their track record is _so bad_. Still, he’ll never live it down if some bad wiring is enough to scare him away, so he squares his shoulders and gestures towards the back of the arcade. “Like come on Scoob, just a peek so we can say we tried.”

Scooby whines and gives him a big puppy-dog pout, and it almost works. He’s got years of practice. Too bad Shaggy has as many years of practice overcoming it. He puts his hands on his hips and stares back, unyielding. 

After several seconds, both their expressions crack and they break into giggles. 

“Rokay, rokay,” Scooby huffs and sighs, still smiling a little. He licks Shaggy’s hand and together they make their way towards the back of the arcade. 

Once they’re out of the brightly lit main room, the ambient sound drops dramatically. Back here the walls are soft black fabric, interrupted occasionally by plain doors. The main body of _Pixel Point_ is a classic arcade, but over the last few decades Mr. Federer, the owner, expanded it to accommodate online gaming groups. Shaggy doesn’t play in any of those, but he knows it’s one of the only things Velma will face the pier for. 

“Sense anything?” he asks in a whisper; the silence is pressing, heavy in a way it shouldn’t be, and even though he knows it’s just his anxiety talking he can’t bring himself to break it outright. Scooby sniffs around the hallway cautiously.

“Rot yet. Reverything _rells_ rormal…” He pauses next to an outlet and sniffs extra hard, then jerks back and sticks his tongue out in disgust. “Blech! Rokay, revermind, ri found romething. Rit rells like rightning rand tire fires here!” He backs away, gagging theatrically. Shaggy gives him a sympathetic head scratch as he crouches down to look. 

It takes a few seconds for him to see anything against the dark walls. The outlet’s plastic cover has a thin ring of charred material along its edges, like someone held a lighter to it. The cover itself also leaves a thin film of oily residue when he feels it and Shaggy wipes his hand on the wall because, gross, he doesn’t want that on his pants. “That’s totally weird, man. Did you smell this out by the games, too?” 

Scooby doesn’t answer immediately, still trying to clear his nose. Shaggy scoots over guiltily and tugs his collar to guide him away from the outlet. Scooby sneezes a few times before he can respond with any clarity. 

“Ruh-uh,” he says thickly as he presses a toe to his nose. “Rit’s rust in rere.” He looks at Shaggy miserably. “Ran we reave now? Ri don’t rant to try again.” 

He looks so genuinely unhappy that Shaggy can’t bring himself to push any harder. Not like he wants to keep investigating anyways, but at least now they have something to show the gang. “Okay, man. Let’s go find Fred. I bet he’ll know what could, like, do this.” 

Scooby smiles in relief and nuzzles his side as he stands back up. “Rokay. Rid he ray he’s coming?”

“Like, he hasn’t so far,” Shaggy shrugs, absently patting his phone pocket. “He and Vel must’a found, like, a lot of stuff out t **_h-”_ ** **_WHAM_ **

**_-TH_ ** **e d** oor right next to them bursts open _hard,_ slamming into the wall from the force of a heavy-booted kick. His heart leaps into his throat, his body leaps away, and a terrified scream leaps from his throat. 

“AAAAAA!!!”

* * *

“AAAAAA!!!”

Daphne nearly punches Shaggy in the nose on reflex as the door opens. It’s only the sudden pins-and-needles flaring through her arm that slows her, and she winces and pulls it close instead. 

Not that it would’ve mattered. Shaggy dodges backwards anyways, cleanly avoiding where her fist would’ve gone and landing in a perfect position to spring to his feet before noticing her and slumping back on his arms. 

“Gods, _guys,_ what are you doing back here!?” she says as she reaches to help him up. Shaggy goes to take her hand, pauses when they both remember why she’s wearing the gloves, and accepts Scooby’s help instead. 

“Rhat about _you?_ ” Scooby asks, frowning as Shaggy pulls himself up on his shoulders. “You’re _ro_ rot here ror rhe game rooms reither. Ralso _ron’t kick doors!_ ” 

Daphne shrugs as she gently shakes the pain out of her arm. “Gossip, of course,” she says, ignoring the last part. “I heard there were some glitches going around and I wanted to investigate.” She looks past them towards the main room. “There was a strange electrical surge just now, so I’m thinking there’s more to it than busted wiring.”

“Like, yeah, we just saw that!” Shaggy wheezes, one hand on his chest. Ok, she does feel a _little_ guilty about scaring them. She half-raises a hand to - apologize maybe? She isn’t sure yet - but he waves her away and straightens up carefully.

“That one had, like, a power surge?” He gestures around the wall towards the prize machines. “This one kid played it and totally won easily, and the lights were going weird the whole time.” 

“Reah! Rand ren they reft, rall the lights rhey passed racted up too.” Scooby adds from her other side, pressing up against her body. He’s warm against her hip and she absently bumps him back as she stands on her toes to see over the cabinets better, which is kinda pointless since she doesn’t know what she’s looking _for_. Unless there’s a bunch of flashing lights, it probably won’t do anything.

“Is that kid still in here?” she asks as she eyes a pair of teens arguing boldly at Leslie Surell, the current supervisor on duty. The woman looks distinctly unimpressed by the conversation. She can empathize. 

Shaggy shrugs. “Like I don’t think so. They ran out to their parents before we started looking around.” 

Of course it can’t be easy. She drops back down and leans against the wall. “Well, that’s unfortunate. So. What do you think? Are we dealing with a kid psychic, a hacker, or something else?”

Shaggy hums as he thinks about it. “Like… I don’t think so? Gerry says there’s been brownouts all week so like, it can’t be the kid’s fault, and we saw a power surge out by the food carts too! There’s totally something else going on.” 

Daphne blinks as wayward thoughts spark through her brain. “I… think I had that too. I went on Dead Drop-” Both of them shoot her stern looks and she rolls her eyes because come on, it’s fine. “-and it jammed for a sec at the start. I didn’t think anything of it, but.” 

“It sounds like it’s, like, the same thing,” Shaggy finishes her thought with barely a pause. She can’t help but grin - working with her boys is special, in a way that Fred and Velma just can’t match. Has been for almost a decade, ever since she found them in the mansion’s garden with a plate of food. Good times. 

“We should see if Fred’s around, he’s the best with electrics,” she says with some reluctance. She reaches for her phone on impulse, but again the prickling in her arms brings her up short. Shaggy gives her an understanding one-armed hug as he pulls his own phone out and starts to type out a summary of the situation.

* * *

6:13 P.M.

* * *

“ _~Andtheman in the back said_ **_ev_ ** _eryone attack and it turned intoa_ **_ballroom blitz_ ** _and the girl inthecorner said boy I want towarnyou it'll turn into a_ **ballroom blitz** _~_ ”

Fred slaps his hands to the beat as the song fades out under the smooth voice of K-Ghoul’s operator, Angel Dynamite. The pier’s parking lot is finally emptying out, with all the families taking their kids home, and now he’s just waiting to see if the gang needs a lift home. 

_“Hey there all you cool cats, ghouls and bats. We’re comin’ at you with all the ambiance you need for this frightful,_ delightful _evening,”_ Angel says, low and sultry. _“Spring’s in bloom and it’s bringin’ high times on the breeze. Coolsville High’s Prom season is on its way, so all you lovelies out there with your hearts set on a special someone better get movin’.”_

Oh yeah. He forgot that prom was close. Last year’s was a complete bore, just a bunch of dancing and bad food. The winning theme wasn’t even _cool_ , who picks ‘Undersea Wonder’ over ‘World of Invention’ anyways?

Freshman year, though; _that_ was a memorable prom. The case of Circe’s Revenge involved a stolen antique wand, a chariot through the cafeteria windows, three pigs loose in the school, and a duo of would-be chemists with a garden of hallucinogenic flowers. The chariot was the only part that was _supposed_ to be there. 

Angel seems done with the local news so he returns his attention to the radio. 

_“-song on the way, we’ve got a request from a Miss Virginia, callin’ in for a true-blue Coolsville mood. Watch out, listeners, ‘cause we’ve got a_ Bad Moon Rising _.”_

Bobbing his head as the cheery strumming starts, Fred grabs his phone to check for updates from the gang. 

**We’re In The Business Of Mystery**

**_Trapmaster General:_ ** _Hey gang! I’m at the Mystery Machine if you want a ride home. (5:35)_

 **_Trapmaster General:_ ** _I’m out by the north lot. Where are you? (6:13)_

_ <Seen by: 0> _

That’s sort of surprising. It’s a little weird that nobody’s checked the chat in the last hour, usually Daphne at least is on her phone all the time. They must really be having fun out there.

He puts his phone on ring and leans his seat back, closing his eyes. When they’re done, they’ll let him know.

* * *

“Anything from Fred?” 

Shaggy checks his phone, for the fourth time in half an hour, and frowns at the grey checkmarks. “Nope. I don’t think he’s, like, even read it.” He sighs and shoves it back into his pocket, giving Daphne a vague shrug. “Anything?” he asks - mainly directed at Scooby, who’s been pacing around nervously and shooting glances across the aisles for the last half hour. Scooby whuffles in annoyance as he drops down from a half-stand. 

“Ruh -uh. Reverything rooks rine. Raybe we rhould come back tomorrow rith Fred rand Relma?” he asks, sounding hopeful. Shaggy looks over at Daphne for her input. She bites her lip and hums in thought. 

Since the claw machine, they haven’t seen any more electrical disturbances in the arcade. Scooby suggested going out to check other parts of the pier, but Daphne countered that by summarizing one of Velma’s rants about Probability Theory and they’d had to agree. Instead, they grabbed some snacks from the counter and went over to a quiet corner to keep watch. 

Unsuccessfully. Whatever Power followed the kid out, it hasn’t made its way back to the arcade yet. 

“Ten more minutes,” Daphne says at last. “If we don’t see anything soon, we’ll go talk to the others and work out a proper investigation.”

“Like ok, but can we play something while we wait?” Shaggy asks. He really wanted to enjoy the arcade more, instead of chasing some kind of electricity ghost around the pier. Scooby apparently agrees, since he gives her a pleading pout as well. 

It still works on her, way better than on Shaggy. She laughs and crouches to tousle his ears affectionately. “Okay, okay, we can play. Your leg feeling up for some _Just Dance_?” 

“Like, totally! It’s just scraped.” He spins on one foot to prove it. Really, he’d barely noticed scratching his shin in the chaos of the previous evening. A bandage, some sanitizer (Velma insisted - the chapel was _so moldy_ ) and he doesn’t even feel it anymore. Daphne watches him to make sure, then cracks a fierce grin.

“Alright, but you can’t use that as an excuse when I kick your ass!” 

“Like, you wish!” 

She hooks an arm around his and tugs him towards the entrance and the game stage. The _DDR_ machines have been there for forever, but _Just Dance_ is pretty new. They don’t know the motions _at all_ , so it’s a way more casual time without Daphne defending her high scores. 

Shaggy fumbles a few quarters from his pocket and slides them in, for Daphne’s sake. He hasn’t missed how her hands are still unsteady. 

“What’cha guys feeling?” she asks as she taps through the songs with her elbows, Scooby standing up next to her and leaning on the console to watch with interest. Shaggy snorts as one in particular flashes on screen. 

“Like as long as it’s not Ghostbusters, it’s fine,” he laughs. Daphne smirks. 

“Too on brand?” She tries to maintain a pout, but she’s biting back a giggle too. “Okay. How about…”

She pauses, a gleam in her eye, then slams _confirm_ without a second thought. Shaggy starts to ask what she picked, but then a funky guitar strum picks up and he beams. “Oh, like, you’re _on,_ Blake!” 

They quickly sync up with the costumed figures on screen and the game fades in, showing a dark room lit by the occasional lightning bolt. Daphne elbows his side eagerly as the song starts. 

“Rit’s rastounding,” Scooby begins, watching them pose from the side with a grin. “Rhime ris reeting. Radness… _rakes its toll.”_

“But listen closely,” Shaggy adds as he swings his arm in a dramatic flourish, bobbing to the beat. 

“ _Not_ for very much longer,” Daphne continues, sliding over to bump hips with him as she shimmies in place. 

“I’ve got to keep control,” Shaggy finishes the verse happily, and then they’re holding hands (arms for Daphne) and dancing outright with carefree energy. Scooby prances around them as they dip and bob and waggle, _mostly_ matching the game’s directions, but maintaining a decent score anyways. It doesn’t matter. _DDR_ is their score contest, _Just Dance_ is for good times only. 

From the corners of his eyes, he notices people turning to watch them. Mostly what looks like the parents of the few kids still playing, with expressions of recognition on their faces. A crowd starts to form as they hit the chorus and the game’s audio is joined by a handful of voices from the impromptu audience. Shaggy can’t hold back a laugh. 

“Like, I guess we’re popular,” he says with a smile. Daphne laughs in his arms, not even watching the screen as she pushes off with a twirl into an arms-raised all-out boogie. He keeps pace easily, her cheer sparking a warmth in his chest as they, as the song says, do the time warp again. 

He can’t help but admire Daphne’s ability to brighten the room. Shaggy’s seen her take down fighters twice her mass and throw dangerous criminals through literal walls, but that doesn’t lessen her natural charisma, and she’s _so_ good at using that to change peoples’ attitudes. It’s a little manipulative, maybe, but thankfully she only uses it for good. 

Uh. 

Wait _._

Shaggy almost trips over himself as he sees it. The room is _literally_ brightening, the lights around them are slowly growing brighter, and now that he’s aware of it, he can hear a faint electrical hum behind the song. _Oh shit, the disturbance is back._ And apparently, it’s _paying attention_ to them, that’s _great_. 

He looks to see if the others have noticed. Scooby definitely has, his ears are twitching out of time with the song. He’s not sure about Daphne until she meets his eyes and her expression tightens. She blinks once, pointedly, and he nods in response. 

They turn back to the game, and now the mood is focused, determined and wary. As the song hits its finale and the audience’s voices swell, he tunes out everything but his and Daphne’s dancing. She’s trying a _lot_ harder now and apparently forgotten about her hands, because he’s having to dodge wild arm swings that’ll totally mess up her injuries if they connect. 

They shake and shimmy through the last beats, finally slowing down as the figures on-screen fall to the ground dramatically. The two of _them_ don’t, of course, it _is_ arcade flooring, but Shaggy feels Scooby against their backs and they both matrix-lean on him instead. It’s close enough. 

The impromptu crowd around them cheers and whistles and claps as Scooby pushes them back to their feet. Shaggy looks around, finally able to pay attention to them, and realizes that basically the _whole arcade_ is watching. Kids are peering out from between their parents and in the background he sees a few faces illuminated by phone screens. The mass of attention is enough to give him retroactive stage fright, which is almost as bad as regular stage fright. 

Daphne’s touch makes him jump, but she just wraps an arm around his and tugs him into a bow. He glances sideways and sees her smiling at the audience, but he knows it’s performative - it’s too reserved, her real smile is big and goofy, not this mask of civility. Looks like fun time’s over. 

“Act normal,” she says under her breath, “I have an idea.” 

That’s more than he’s got, at least. He lets her pull him off the stage, waving to a pair of college girls who’ve been eyeing the game with interest, and together they head over towards the flickering corner. The machines there are old and rarely see use, which is perfect for this. They shouldn’t be interrupted. 

Daphne’s still smiling her fake smile as she leans against the wall. “Oh man, that was great! _Just Dance’s_ totally earning its spot. It looks like they put it up front to draw people in, which is an excellent business decision and I want to meet whoever thought of it because they _know their shit_.” 

Shaggy nods along silently, letting her work up momentum. The lights around them haven’t changed so either this goes nowhere, or the Power is listening to her, so good plan for now.

“Really, though, it’s good business,” Daphne continues thoughtfully. “Adding the online rooms must have been the kick Mr. Federer needed, he didn’t update the games for _decades_ until now. Probably saved the place, actually” 

She taps sharply on the machine next to her. “I bet _you_ agree with me, don’t you, mysterious electrical phantom?” she asks, her false smile turning smug. 

There’s a beat of silence, then the screen flares to life and a garbled crackle of 8-bit music bleats out of the ancient speakers. Shaggy backs away quickly, almost tripping over Scooby as he does, but Daphne just watches, amused, as the screen flickers through logo after logo in digital panic before reaching the title screen. 

Or, almost. Instead of the simple blocks of _Galaxy Cascade_ , the pixels have condensed into a rough shape; a pointy blue face, staring at them with all the authority its 8-bit resolution can manage. 

_“Humans! Your exceptional performance has earned you the honor of my attention!”_ it announces in an echoing, electronic voice. _“I am the guardian spirit of this carnival. Be blessed in my presence!”_

Shaggy valiantly resists the urge to raise his eyebrows at the showboating. The being’s got the dramatics for it, definitely, but they don’t have the presence of a serious Power. Even Fizzlet can drum up better gravitas when he needs to, and _he’s_ barely half a foot tall. Although, that’s not really fair. Fairies have a particular knack for it. 

Scooby bumps against his leg. Right. Focus. 

Daphne curtseys and Shaggy follows her lead with a polite bow. “We are honored, fair guardian,” she says in her practiced, cultured tones. Shaggy wonders for a moment whether the being will actually notice the difference. It can’t hurt, at least. Probably. “Might we ask what circumstances brought you to _Pixel Point_?” 

The being gives out a laugh like the _Galaxy Cascade_ defeat noise. _“What brings anyone anywhere? The whims of fate? The promise of glory, or riches, or power? You humans have so many strange desires, after all; finding the suitable translation for my motive is such a_ bother _. I travel as I wish, I need not justify myself.”_

“As is your right, of course,” Daphne assures it quickly, before standing a little straighter and re-adopting a respectful tone. “On behalf of Coolsville, it is our pleasure to welcome you to the Sea of Mystery as an honored resident. We hope your time here is all that you wish, dear spectre.” 

The being preens as much as its pixelated face allows. Which isn’t much, so it’s extra impressive that it conveys itself so well. _“The welcome is appreciated, human! Your deorum speaks well for your people.”_ Its smile suddenly shifts, from smug to considering, and its voice drops into an electronic drone. _“I expect this to be a_ delightful _tenure, should your hospitality hold true for the rest of your kin.”_

It lets out a cackling laugh that sends the screen hashing into static, and with a sudden flare of lights the machine shuts down cold. 

The abrupt departure sends shivers down Shaggy’s spine. The being _seemed_ all proud and arrogant and vain, but that last sentence… That’s _very much_ not in line with its braggart behavior. He’s usually really good at judging first impressions too, better than the whole of the gang. If he didn’t notice any hostility until it _let_ him, how can he trust his instincts? What if-

“Hey. Let’s get out of here.”

Daphne’s voice, soft and steady, pulls his attention out of his thoughts. She smiles up at him as she gently hooks his arm in hers and tugs him away into the golden sunset glow, which catches her hair and alights it in a bloom of color. The warmth helps chase away his lingering anxiety, and he gives her a small but genuine smile that she returns at once. 

“So, like, it’s totally new to this, isn’t it?” he whispers once he’s centered his thoughts, his voice just a little shaky. Daphne snorts and nudges him playfully, as if she’d just _happened_ to do exactly the right thing to help him. She didn’t. She totally did it on purpose. 

“Oh, yeah. Little baby guardian spirit. I bet this is its first ever domain.” Her grin fades, and she looks off into the distance consideringly. “I wonder why it came _now_ , though. Nothing’s really happened that would catch its attention. What could’ve prompted its appearance?” 

Shaggy glances at Scooby, who gives him a walking shrug, which, same. “Like I dunno. Maybe it followed the Silverfin clan?”

Daphne frowns in thought as they pass through the main gate, giving casual waves to the ticket attendants as they go. “Yeah, maybe. It just seems untimely, you know?”

Shaggy does know. He also doesn’t want to contemplate it.

* * *

A loud knocking on the window alerts Fred to the gang’s return. He looks up to see Scooby’s nose pressed against the glass, with the rest of the dog behind it, and Daphne and Shaggy behind _him._ He quickly unlocks the van and waves.

“Hey guys! I thought you’d be done hours ago. Did you have a good time?” he asks as they slide into the back seat. 

“Arcade’s haunted.”

He pauses, one hand on the ignition. Uh. What.

“What?” 

“Arcade’s haunted,” Daphne says again. Shaggy elbows her as he grabs his seatbelt and she kicks sideways with a smirk. “Didn’t you see our texts?” she adds, glancing up at him in mild perplexion. 

Fred frowns and checks his phone again. As soon as he opens the screen a string of notifications starts coming in from, like, every app he uses. He quickly taps through all the popups so he can open his texts, where he sees half a dozen messages from the last few hours that _totally weren’t there_ last time he checked.

“I didn’t get any notifications from _anything_ until just now. When did you send them?” he asks, surprised. In the mirror he sees them exchange a long look before Daphne meets his eyes and waves a hand in dismissal. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry. How was your day?” she asks instead of continuing the subject. Fred considers asking more, but decides that if it was really important they’d tell him more. Arcade’s haunted? Okay. Not what he expected, but he doesn’t need to know everything about what they get up to together. Although, maybe he should ask Marcie about paranormal/electrical interactions… oh!

“Marcie came by!” he says excitedly as he starts the van. “She helped fix the math for my bolas launcher. I should be able to finish it this weekend, I’ve got just enough parts left over to refit the chassis and adjust the torque. You guys want to test it out with me when it’s done?” 

The trio nod excitedly. “Like, for sure!” Shaggy says excitedly, “It’s gonna be, like, really useful, I bet! We gotta know how to use it.”

“If Velma doesn’t find any leads by then, I’d love to take some shots with it,” Daphne agrees. “What kinds of things did you two take home, anyways? I didn’t recognize most of the stuff on the shelves, and those books were _not_ written for legibility.”

Fred shrugs at her reflection in the mirror. “I don’t know either. We just boxed up whatever Velma said wouldn’t fall apart on us.” It’s a legitimate concern, though thankfully not one they’ve had trouble with for a long time. They’d solved their first few cases _before_ Velma started working at the Museum. There’s a reason those mysteries don’t have big displays there, and it’s not because they weren’t noteworthy. That seminar on historical preservation the Dinkleys held was invaluable, though it's too bad it was scheduled _after_ their career started out.

* * *

“Hey stupid! Mom made flapjacks!”

Madelyn’s voice stabs through the fog of sleep, dragging Velma to wretched consciousness. Her sister hammers on her door a few times just to be horrible before thundering away. Velma groans as she sits up, blinking crust from her eyes. Shit, she fell asleep at her computer again. She can _not_ keep doing that on school nights. 

She stretches her arms above her head, wincing at the sickening _pops_ that sound from her spine, and wakes her computer up as she runs a hand through her hair. _Gross,_ she needs a shower _bad._

Breakfast first, though, or Madelyn will eat everything. 

She makes her way down to the kitchen, trying to ignore the ache in her back. Hot water will feel _amazing_ , as long as she can get there. 

“Hello Velma, dear. How did your research go?” Mom gives her a quick hug in greeting as she sets a plate at Velma’s usual seat. Madelyn’s already loaded her plate with a stack of food that looks more like a cartoon gag and is digging in with gusto. Velma takes a more moderate selection as she hums at the question. 

“It’s going slow. The papers are all written in a dialect of Old English that I’m not familiar with. Transcribing them might take me weeks to finish, and I can’t write a piece on the chapel until I’m done.” She turns around to find Mom looking at her in concern. She reaches out to smooth down Velma’s bedhead despite her best protests. _Damn plate, why must this inconvenience inhibit her so?_

“Dearie, it’s alright to take your time with it. I’m sure the museum would love a new addition, but they do well enough already. You just keep working on it at your own pace,” Mom says encouragingly. 

Velma frowns, because that wasn’t the point, she wasn’t _complaining_ about it, she doesn’t know what her mom heard but it definitely wasn’t what she meant. She starts to correct her but Madelyn snorts in amusement. Then starts coughing her lungs out on a bit of flapjack. 

“Yeah, sis, why don’t you take it easy? You don’t want to go _gray_ , huh?” she wheezes through her tears. “You’re never gonna get a date if you look like a spinster!” 

_That_ makes Velma stick her tongue out, because being a professional paranormal investigator comes second to being a big sister. Mom frowns at them over her coffee. “Madelyn,” she says, shaking her head. The poof of greying hair that makes up her bangs waves around pointedly. Madelyn just smiles and stuffs her face again. _Brat._

Mom sighs as Velma slips past with her food. She hesitates, feeling like she should say something, but she has no idea what. She loves her Mom, she loves swapping taunts with Madelyn, but sometimes she still feels out of place around her family. 

“Thanks for breakfast,” she eventually mutters. Mom gives her a proud smile that makes her blush with embarrassment and hurry away. 

Madelyn’s distracted by her food, and Velma can’t resist one last taunt. She dips a finger into the puddle of syrup on her plate and swipes it across her sister’s nose as she passes by. Madelyn’s outraged squawks cover her laughter as she hurries back to her room. 

Google’s bright white page taunts her as she returns to her desk. She sighs at the list of useless results and erases her last search ( _‘16th century american religious subgroups’, that one was definitely a stretch anyways),_ then stares at the blinking cursor as she angrily bites into her flapjack. She’d hoped to find anything about the church, but until she translates enough documents she’s shit out of luck. And _of course_ the writing’s old enough that she _can’t_ translate it right now, so she’s left with all the data she could want but _no leads to follow._

Except… that symbol. The six-part wheel. It was obviously the central icon for the church, so much that the nave was designed around it, and if there’s any records of this chapel existing they _should_ include it. Should. It was the first thing she searched for last night, in as many permutations as she could imagine, but no luck. 

For this, at least. She came across plenty of theological discussions, to her great regret. 

She growls out a sigh. Preliminary research is always the worst part of a case. She loves digging into evidence, reading accounts and cross-referencing data to put together a coherent narrative; loves the satisfaction of solving a puzzle no one else can. 

She does _not_ love the cascade of frustration she has to wade through to get ahold of the pieces in the first place.

_Focus. The symbol._

Velma eyes the search bar thoughtfully. Maybe… 

She shuffles through the stack of polaroids Shaggy managed to take before everything went to hell, pulling out the ones that display the symbol in some form. Scanning them onto her computer, she quickly uploads them to a dummy page and sends out half a dozen image searches. Then she eats some more of her flapjacks because she _is_ pretty hungry. 

None of the searches are immediately useful (half of them are just pizza places), but as she adjusts the search settings she starts spotting more interesting options. Theoretical spell diagrams and Roman chariots and sailing ships’ wheels, and… a link to the Coolsville Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane? _What?_

She clicks that link first, out of sheer curiosity. 

It opens onto a news article titled _As the Caged Bird Sings! A Reflection on Coolsville’s Most Infamous Injustice!_ She scowls at the sensationalist headline but quashes her journalistic indignation and starts to read. 

_The story of Professor Pericles is one of Coolsville’s greatest shames; a city that prides itself on acceptance, yet so severely failed one of its most prestigious and respected nonhumans. It’s no wonder the truth has been erased from history, for how could the city claim acceptance if the public knew its secrets?_

_The tragedy begins with Professor Pericles’s arrival in Coolsville, from parts unknown. That term is quite literal, as his previous residences are nowhere within public record. While this is not uncommon for non-humans of the time, his persistent and vehement refusal to divulge his history raised no few eyebrows - an early warning, perhaps, that went unnoticed._

_Despite his lack of origins, he quickly established himself at Coolsville University as an excellent instructor of Alchemy and Spellwork; teaching at all levels with a skill beyond compare, to the chagrin of his human peers. His abilities earned admirers as quickly as it did rivals, and his biting intelligence did nothing to temper his rising fame. In the then-turbulent political atmosphere it’s no wonder he became a polarizing figure throughout the city. Every year saw increases in student numbers, with freshmen eager to study under the controversial parrot, and every year he faced louder criticism from his detractors. Perhaps it is this combination of factors that resulted in his (in hindsight, inevitable) downfall._

_It was during his seventh year at Coolsville University that tragedy struck. Pericles had been making waves alongside a supernatural rights activist group, the Society for the Advancement of Interspecies Relations (SAIR), and tensions had reached an all-time high. Protests filled the streets every week, aggravating relations with law enforcement and calling the university’s reputation in question due to the massive numbers of students involved. The breaking point was a daytime protest that broke down into a riot, leading to the arrest of thirty-seven individuals, including twelve of Pericles’s own students._

_Pericles himself refused to comment on his students’ involvement other than stating he “will work with SAIR to ensure that these unfortunate incidents are properly resolved, and that such injustices do not mar the bright futures of [his] students.”_

_The following morning, the Coolsville Police Department was struck by a devastating explosion. First responders to the scene discovered the northern wall collapsed, several officers injured, and a hole leading into the detention area, where they found the arrestees fleeing the cells. Efforts to recapture them were impaired by the smoke gathering in the upper floors, which in turn led them to the unfortunate source._

_Pericles was found in the midst of burning police records for the recent months, which included nearly all the protestors from SAIR. He was arrested under charges of Arson, Inciting a Riot, and Destruction of Evidence, and - given the sheer scale of the attack - was quickly found guilty on all counts and sentenced to indefinite confinement in_ Coolsville Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane. 

_In order to save their own reputations, his former partners turned their backs on him and disavowed his actions as if his history of dedicated activism meant nothing. He was left to face justice alone; a pariah to the very people he sought to protect. The photographs from the courtroom, of the fallen genius being dragged away in a cage, are a grisly memoir of the violence he brought to Coolsville._

_But this is not the end of_ his _story. No, far from it. His incarceration has, over the lonely decades, changed the once-proud parrot, twisting his mind into-_

Velma stops reading and leans back in disgust. 

The article’s certainly well-written, by someone with a clear interest in the story, but the sheer _pretentiousness_ of it all, the voyeuristic desire to expose and scrutinize and _consume_ is sickening. She can’t wait until Mystery Incorporated has enough clout to put creeps like this out of work. 

She slowly moderates her breathing, calming herself before opening her eyes again and rapidly scrolling through the rest. The words blur past too quickly to read, thank _fuck_ , before a large image flies across the screen and she drags the scroll wheel back up.

“...Well, _that’s_ not right,” Velma mutters to herself at the sight. 

The photo shows a parrot. An African Grey Parrot, she thinks, wearing glasses and bearing a noticeable scar across one eye. He’s resting on a plastic perch and staring directly into the camera, wide-eyed and with his beak slightly open. His talons, gripping the perch, are worn nearly to the bone and stained with old blood that’s also flecked across the white coat he’s wearing. 

The perch seems to be the only thing actually _installed_ in the cell, sitting in the center of a large stone room that might’ve once been unremarkable. Not anymore. Carved into the walls and floor are dozens of alchemy symbols. The common elemental symbols constitute the majority of the marks, but she can see planetary metals and other signs scattered around in a spiraling array of madness. He must’ve scratched them out with his talons, somehow, and the determination it would take to do that is harrowing.

But none of those things are what the image search caught. They’re not what she’s looking for. 

Directly behind this ‘Pericles’, perfectly centering him in the image, is a large, six-spoked wheel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha...hah... it's been 4 months... 
> 
> So. I started work again, and it doesn't give me as much time to sit down and write, which is why this chapter's so much later than the others. I'm still working on it though! Comments are appreciated, and I hope y'all enjoy!


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